


How to Become the Mayor of New York City Part 2

by astrapoetica



Series: How to Become the Mayor of New York City [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrapoetica/pseuds/astrapoetica
Summary: Matt's conviction to give up his Daredevil persona is challenged by the threat of a new enemy with incredible powers, Rosalind Sharpe meddles in Foggy and Matt's personal life, and Karen and Frank face some major hurdles in pursuit of their own happy ending.





	1. Speak of the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy finally tells Matt the truth about his birth mother, and a new threat looms on the horizon that will test Matt's conviction to give up his Daredevil persona.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well thanks for sticking with it if you're here from my other fic! This chapter is from Foggy's POV, and the next will be told from Matt's. Let me know what you think below, I'm expecting there will eventually be three parts to this fic. Also, I'm super excited to include some new characters that aren't technically part of the NMCU in this fic. As always, you can find me on tumblr at bestdamnavocadoes.

“You know that you could have just told me that Anna wasn't your real birth mother. You could have told me a long time ago, and it wouldn't have changed anything.”

Foggy runs a hand through his hair, and heaves a hefty sigh of pure exhaustion. “And when exactly would have been a good time, Matt? When you were almost failing out of school? When we were trying to start a law firm? When you were running around the city in your pajamas fighting crime like a madman?"

Instantly he wants to take the words back as Matt’s face crumples.

“Is that how you’ve always felt? That you can’t talk to me, even about something as important as this? This isn't exactly something that's inconsequential, Foggy. I just can't believe that you didn't tell me, after all these years and everything that we've been through. I mean, you know everything about me. Everything. And I just don't understand why you didn't feel that you could share this with me. To be honest it makes me feel like I did something wrong, but I don't know what it was.”

Foggy wants to shoot back a hot retort. He wants to be vindictive and ask Matt how it feels now that the shoe is on the other foot, when it's him keeping secrets rather than the other way around. But whatever else he's been in his life, he's never been a cruel person. So he just turns away instead, unable to look at Matt's downtrodden expression anymore. They’re both still standing in the kitchen, and Foggy feels like there's something frozen about them, like they're two figures trapped in time. According to the clock on the microwave, it’s only been twenty some minutes since he launched into his explanation about his birth mother. But somehow it feels like a lifetime has passed them by, like something has fundamentally changed now that the truth is out. Now that Matt knows that he isn't really who he's pretended to be all these years.

He’s tried to sketch in the basics of the situation without giving away too much detail. He's told him that he had a birth mother who left his family when he was young, that she left them for the sake of her career, and that he hasn't really seen her since he was a teenager. What he's neglected to mention is that she’s also a powerful attorney, and that she played a critical role in his own decision to pursue law as a career. And that fact was also the whole reason behind Anna urging him to be a butcher and not a lawyer, and that he's been struggling to try and tell Matt all of this for years. But he just hadn't been sure how to say it, because he has no idea what the follow up conversation would have looked like.

_I was never good enough for her, so I decided to pursue the same career to…. What? Show her what I was made of? Get the recognition I never received as a child?_

Even to his own ears it sounds strange and pathetic. Like he's just grasping at straws. The truth of it all is that she may have influenced his decision to go into law, but the reason he stayed was because he was damn good at it. Because it made him feel powerful in a way that he had never experienced before, and because he loves the feeling that comes with winning a particularly good argument, and knowing that on some small level he's made a change in the world around him. And also partially because of Matt. Because something about the way that they worked together was pure magic, and he would have rather gnawed one of his own limbs off than give up on their partnership.

He had expected that Matt might be angry with him at some point during this explanation, but mostly he just seems hurt. And for some reason, the disappointment hurts worse than he ever imagined it could. He can't really figure out the right words to say to make him understand why he never told him about his mother. It's ironic that he can often find the right words in the courtroom, but when it comes to his personal life he often feels like he turns into a jabbering idiot: “I don’t know, Matt. It's just always seemed like your stuff is so much more important. Like there's never time for anything else.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and then Matt’s arms are sliding around him. His movements are slow and almost hesitant, as if he isn’t sure if he's going to be rejected or not. “Nothing is more important to me than you and Karen, you know that right? And I guess that includes Ella now. I’m sorry if it’s ever seemed like that wasn’t the case. I’m working on changing all of that, but you have to give me time. Our lives aren't exactly uncomplicated. And I know that some of that is due to me, and the choices that I've made. I just have to make better ones in the future.”

Foggy leans his hand against Matt’s, feeling the scratch of his beard on his cheek. “I guess I’m not being entirely truthful. I was also…. Embarrassed somehow, you know?”

“Why on earth would you be embarrassed? It’s not like I had a stellar family situation growing up, either.”

It feels like tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes, and he tries to blink them back. He doesn’t know why this is still so painful for him. You would think that at 38 years old he would finally be over the feelings of pain and rejection that haunted him throughout his childhood, but somehow it's all still just as fresh as it ever was. Like he's thirteen years old again, and Rosalind has just showed up to his birthday party for fifteen minutes and then disappeared in pure disgust when she heard about his failure to get into that one specialized high school - the one that she said she would pay for if he could only pass the entrance exam. Only he didn't pass the exam, and after that she never bothered with him again. Just a one line letter congratulating him when he graduated from Columbia.

He wants to say that he didn't want Matt to look at him any differently, to look at him and see someone who was rejected by the one person in the world who was actually supposed to love him unconditionally. To see someone defective.

And now he really is crying, and Matt is wiping away his tears, the words, “Oh, Foggy,” murmured against his hair.

“I don’t know why she didn’t want me,” is all that comes out when he can finally talk again. The words come out sounding like he’s choking.

“She was an idiot, that’s why,” Matt says, and Foggy leans into his embrace, snorting out a laugh. It’s a simplistic explanation, but somehow it makes him feel better all the same. Or maybe that’s just Matt - having his arms around him, breathing in the familiar scent of him - it makes everything else seem fuzzy and far away. He puts his nose in the crook of Matt’s neck and just breaths him in, trying to slow down his breathing.

“I mean it, Foggy. She clearly didn’t get what she was missing out on, and apparently she still doesn't.” He lets out a long breath. “I still don’t think that I’ve forgiven Maggie, to be honest. On a logical level I understand why she made the decision that she did. But even though I can rationalize it, I don't really understand it. And it still hurts.”

“She saw our picture on Facebook, Matt. She said she wants to get to know me now…. To know us.”

Matt is tracing small concentric circles on his back with his hands, but it seems as if he immediately grasps what Foggy means. “Because of Ella?”

“It seems like it.” Foggy pulls back, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Matt. I never meant for the two of you to get dragged into my family drama.”

Matt throws back his head in a laugh. “Because you never get involved in my drama, right?”

“This just seems… different somehow.” He pauses, trying to think of what he should really tell Matt about Rosalind. “I don’t know what she wants from me yet.”

His face creases into a frown. “And that worries you?”

There’s a tiny sound from Ella then, and they both look over at her. She’s kicking her feet up in her reclining chair, and she’s been remarkably quiet up until now, but she's probably getting hungry for her lunch. “I should finish making that bottle,” Foggy says, letting Matt’s arms slide from his as he starts to clean up the mess that he made with the formula earlier.

Matt has his head tilted to the side as if he’s trying to puzzle out Foggy’s behavior, but he just pours himself another cup of coffee and remains quiet. Foggy has Ella in his arms and a bottle in her mouth before he speaks again.

“My mother…” he can’t figure out quite what to say. Everything running through his mind will likely come out sounding biased and unfair. And he wants Matt to take Rosalind seriously if she ever approaches him. “Every time I’ve interacted with her in the past it hasn’t… it hasn’t ended well.” 

_There, that sounds appropriately diplomatic._

“So you don’t think she really wants to see you?”

“Out of the goodness of her heart?” A bitter laugh. “Honestly, no.”

“So what could she want then?” Matt is turning the yellow coffee cup around and around in his hands, as if he’s sorting through all of this new information. He’s remained remarkably calm, but Foggy still feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For some anger to appear, as hypocritical as that anger might be considering all of the secrets that Matt himself has kept in the past.

“I’m really not sure what she could want, which is why I think that maybe I should just try to avoid her.” Foggy tries to focus on Ella, her dark, bewitching eyes trained on his as she drinks the bottle down.

He tries to imagine what it would take for someone to walk out on something so small and helpless, but for some reason he can’t fathom it. It’s different now for him, seeing it from this end. Before he had always imagined it from his own perspective, as the child being left behind. But now, looking down at Ella, it’s like he’s seeing the situation in a whole new light. He can't help but feel a twist in his heart when he thinks about how she isn't properly his anyway. He's not really related to her at all, not in any meaningful (or legal) way. She’s Matt’s daughter, and he’s just… here. Matt’s steadfast friend, his partner in his law firm, his lover of the moment.

But as impermanent as this situation might be in reality, it feels as if Ella is his in truth sometimes. And he can’t imagine what it would be like to just wake up one day and make the decision to walk out of the door of their apartment, never to return. And even if he did walk out, and even if he had a really good reason for leaving, what would it mean to never see her again? Not on her birthday? Not on holidays? He’s barely had her in his life for a few weeks, and he can’t even imagine being away from her for a single day at this point. He's not sure how he would ever survive the feeling of loss and separation that would definitely ensue. And all of that doesn't even take into account what it would be like to leave Matt in the lurch, stuck taking care of her all on his own...

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” Matt says finally, setting his coffee cup down. “I mean, God knows I didn’t handle the news about Maggie as well as I could have. And I’m probably the last person in the world who should be dispensing advice on this particular topic. But maybe you should meet with her. Just to see what she has to say. Maybe she’ll surprise you.”

“That’s what my mom... “ He pauses, adding a clarifying: “Anna. That’s what she said.”

“Maybe she knows what she’s talking about,” Matt says.

Foggy turns away from him again, ostensibly to burp Ella, but also to try and gather his thoughts. Matt has no idea what they could potentially be getting into themselves in contacting Rosalind, but Foggy isn’t sure exactly what he can say to get him to understand.

“Or don’t meet with her. It’s all up to you, and I can’t say what the best course of action is. But either way, you should probably send her some sort of message. You know - text, email, carrier pigeon. Otherwise, she might never go away.”

Foggy heaves a sigh, turning back around to see Matt regarding him seriously. “She might not go away regardless of what I do. Not until she gets what she wants.”

“That sounds a little bit ominous. You’re really scared of this woman, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly scared… cautious. And you should be too, if she contacts you.”

“Can I get a name for this mystery woman who might be about to disrupt all of our lives?”

Foggy takes a deep breath: “Rosalind. Rosalind Sharpe.”

“I’m sorry, come again?”

\---

“Her name is Rosalind Sharpe, and she’s an attorney. A scary one.”

Karen is blinking at both of them as if this is just too much to process on a Monday morning, and Foggy can’t say that he blames her. She takes a sip from her styrofoam coffee cup, her bright blue eyes surveying him cautiously before she responds. “And she’s your real… ehrm..." Something about the expression on his face must show his displeasure at that phrasing, and she hurries to correct herself: “What I mean to say is that this woman... Rosalind Sharpe. She's your birth mother? And Anna is your stepmother then?”

Foggy nods, shuffling his feet and wishing that this could just be over and done with already. He feels awkward and exposed, like all of his dirty laundry is being aired. "But Theo was born after you," she goes on, "so that makes him..."

"My half-brother. Anna and my dad had him together, after they were married."

She takes a deep breath, and stands up, enveloping him in a warm hug. He really, really doesn't want to cry at the office, so he tries to control the tears that are threatening to spill over. "I'm sorry, Foggy," she says, "that must have been really difficult to deal with. And she says that she wants to see you now? Because of you and Matt?”

“And Ella, apparently,” Matt says. He’s leaning against the front of his desk, and his body language may be casual, but his face is as serious as Foggy has ever seen it.

It’s nearly lunchtime already, and during a lull in their list of clients, Foggy and Matt called her into the office to tell her the truth about Rosalind, just in case she decides to show up unexpectedly at the office. Foggy knows that what they’re doing is the right thing. Karen has every right to know what’s going on, but it’s still galling to have to explain this all over again. And it's not any less painful the second time around.

“But why now?” Karen asks, going back to her seat but still perching on the edge of her chair as if she’s about to leap up at any second and take flight. Foggy goes back to pacing in front of the window, pretending to be interested in what's going on in the street below them so that he doesn't have to really look at anyone. “If she hasn’t wanted to talk to you in all this time, what’s changed her mind now?”

“Maybe she’s interested in our relationship,” Matt says, shrugging. “It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had an estranged relationship with a child and then suddenly wanted to know them again once there was a grandchild in the picture.”

Karen’s eyes flicker over to Foggy, and he feels as if he’s turning red. He looks away from her, and resumes his pacing. _Did he just refer to Ella as my daughter? I think he did._

“I mean, she doesn’t know the details of our arrangement,” he goes on, “and I’m sure your parents probably didn’t tell her that much on the phone. So naturally her assumption is that…” he pauses as if searching for the right words. “That maybe we’re more conventional than she realizes.”

“Conventional,” Karen chuckles, “is such a diplomatic way to put it.”

Foggy shoots her a look and rolls his eyes as Matt continues, “Either way, we won’t know for sure until we talk to her.”

Her look turns skeptical as she watches Foggy continue to wear a hole in the carpet on the office floor. “And are you going to do that?” she asks him.

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’m not sure what I’m doing yet. Matt thinks that I should.”

She gives a tiny, indelicate snort. “I think relationships with parents can be overrated. You should do what you think is right, and we’ll support you no matter what you decide.”

“I could talk to her,” Matt suggests, causing both Foggy and Karen to stare at him as if he’s lost his mind. He gives a slow, lazy shrug as if he can tell that they’re both looking at him with half opened mouths of astonishment. “What? I think it could be a fair compromise. That way Foggy doesn’t have to talk to her at all, and I can tell her to back off. I’ve been told that I can make a fairly convincing argument when I set my mind to it.” He grins as if he’s laughing internally at his own bad joke.

“I think inviting her into our lives in any kind of a way is a mistake,” Foggy protests.

Karen’s eyes bounce back and forth between them like she’s watching her parents argue, and wisely decides to say nothing.

“From what I've heard about her, I’m not sure that we’re going to have much of a choice,” Matt replies. “She’s not used to hearing the word ‘no.’ I think this is the most expedient route to getting rid of her. Give her a little bit of what she wants, and maybe she’ll get tired and move on.”

“That's the problem though, Matt! I don’t think that she’s going to stop at a 'little bit.' She’s a shark, and she’s probably going to devour us all until we’re just… shark food!”

Karen tries to hide her laughter under a cough, and Matt puts a hand up to try to cover his smile.

“Yeah, well, go ahead and laugh all you want, but this is serious! God only knows what she wants from us anyway…”

Matt walks over to Foggy, settling a hand on his shoulder to stop his nervous pacing. “So let me find out. Then we can all just move on, and things can go back to normal.”

Foggy looks over at Karen, who nods at him. “I think maybe Matt is right. From what you’re telling us, she isn’t just going to go away. So let’s just find out what she wants, and then we can proceed from there.”

He’s shaking his head, even though he has a feeling that he's already lost this particular argument. “I don’t like this, I don’t like it at all.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Matt tells him, squeezing his shoulder. “Just let me try and figure it out. I mean, we went to Columbia with plenty of sharks, and then we were at Landman and Zack which was basically the shark tank. What could be any worse than that?”

Foggy shoots him a look that says that he’s a total idiot, which unfortunately he can’t see.

“Hey,” Karen interjects, “If you’re worried about it, we can always send Frank to glare at her while Matt talks. That would be enough to scare anyone away.”

Her joke does nothing at all to make him feel any better.

\---

The meeting is arranged all too easily. All it takes is two conversations on Matt’s part - one with Anna to get Rosalind’s contact information, and one phone call to Rosalind herself to set up a time and a place. Foggy listens as Matt talks to her, biting his cuticles and staring out of the window of Matt’s apartment at the ever-changing neon billboard outside.

He’s carrying around Ella, who’s running a bit of a fever. Where she picked it up he doesn’t know, but at least soothing her gives him something to do while Matt talks to Rosalind. She's also started getting one or two teeth, so he's letting her gnaw on a frozen waffle in an attempt to kill two birds with one stone. Matt doesn’t put it on speaker phone, so he can’t hear the other side of the conversation, which is absolutely killing him. All he can hear is Matt, talking in that calm, affected manner he uses with clients and in court trials. He pauses in his pacing when he hears Matt call himself his partner, and he swallows reflexively, wondering if that’s really what they are or if Matt is just going with the easiest and most expected identifier. But his back is to Foggy, and without an expression to go on, he can’t discern much of his intent.

Rosalind must have asked a question about it though, because Matt just gives a bit of a laugh, saying “Yes, in our legal firm too.” He sounds polite and charming, and the conversation is over within moments. Matt pushing the end call button before turning around to look at Foggy.

“We’re going to meet this Saturday at a coffee shop. I thought that might be enough of a neutral space to suit everyone. And you definitely don't have to go, she isn't even expecting you.”

Foggy jiggles Ella in his arms, his heart pounding even from that short amount of contact. “And you still think that this is a good idea?”

“I think it’s the only viable idea that we’ve had so far.” He sets the phone down, opening the fridge and sniffing at the emptiness. “Do you have any idea what you want to eat for dinner? We don't have much in here right now.”

“I don’t know how you can be so calm about this.”

He shuts the fridge door, resting his face against it momentarily as if he’s exasperated. He mutters something under his breath that sounds oddly like, “One of us has to be.”

Foggy opens his mouth to call him out on it, when suddenly Matt’s phone is chiming out the words “Jessica Jones” over and over again. “Jessica Jones,” it chirps, “Jessica Jones.”

Foggy looks at it like it's a snake that might suddenly leap up and bite him. He glances over at Matt, who seems unsure if he should answer it. Foggy hikes Ella up a bit higher, readjusting her so that she sits more comfortably in his arms. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

“I don’t imagine that she’s calling about the weather, Foggy.”

“Jessica Jones, Jessica Jones, Jessica Jones…”

“Just answer it already, and I’ll call out for Thai food afterwards.”

Matt grimaces, hitting the answer button. This time, he does put it on speaker. “Matt Murdock,” he says in a clipped tone.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, devil boy, I thought you were never going to answer.”

“Nice to hear from you too, Jessica. I assume that this isn’t a social call.”

“You’ve ahh-sumed correctly,” she says in a mocking tone.

“You may have heard that I’m retired,” Matt shoots back, hands on his hips.

“I heard about the baby from Danny and Luke. Congrats and Mazel Tov, or whatever the hell people typically say in conversations like this. You having a baby shower or something soon?”

Matt snorts. “Foggy wanted one.”

“Wise man, Murdock, you should listen to him if you ask me. Free stuff is always a bonus in a sucky situation.”

Foggy can’t help but raise an eyebrow at Matt, whispering under his breath quietly enough that it won’t pick up on the phone, _See, I told you so._

“Yeah, but then I would have to deal with the kind of people who would want to come to a baby shower,” Matt retorts, and Foggy knows that the response is for both of them.

“Also a great point.” Her voice is dry and sardonic as always, and she immediately returns to the point of her call in the no-nonsense way that she has. “Look, this really isn’t a social call, just like you said. And I know that you’re… retired now, or whatever the fuck you want to call it.”

Foggy winces, biting back the urge to cover Ella’s ears. God knows that he swears enough around Ella, but it always sounds so much dirtier coming from Jessica.

“But I really think that you should come down to my office tonight, and hear what I have to say.”

There’s a long silence as Matt just stands there, and Foggy bounces Ella. “I don’t know if I can do that,” he eventually says, and Foggy can hear Jessica’s loud exhalation of disbelief.

“I really think you’re going to regret that decision. There's things happening in the city that you need to know about. That _the other you_ needs to know about.” She emphasizes her words just enough that they can easily tell what she means, utterly quashing any delusions that either one of them had that this phone call could be about anything other than Daredevil-related business.

Matt’s grimace deepens, and Foggy can see warring emotions play out on his face. So many versions of duty and responsibility, and fulfilling any one of them means neglecting something else. It's a horrible, no-win situation, and Foggy can see it eating away at him as he bites his lip. Even his breathing seeming to have picked up, the pace of it going ragged. “I’m retired, Jessica, and I think you damn well know why. That’s not something that’s going to change.”

“And if people die because of it?”

Matt’s breathing stutters, and Foggy resists the urge to throw the phone across the room.

“I made a commitment, Jessica. And I can’t go back on it.”

“I don’t want you to ever claim that I didn’t tell you how serious this was when it first came up.”

“I won’t.” His face is a stony mask as he hangs up without saying goodbye. Foggy can see his frustration as he grips the phone tightly, probably struggling with the same impulse that Foggy just had to smash it into a thousand pieces.

“You can still go if you need to,” he says, and Matt is the one who’s pacing now. Unlike Foggy’s restless wandering earlier in the day though, Matt’s pacing is more frantic, like a caged animal measuring the length of its cell.

“I really can’t, and you know why.”

“Matt - ”

“I made a promise to you! To Ella! I can’t just go back on that. I said I would put both of you first, and I…. I can’t just go back on that. Who would that make me?”

He does throw the phone then, and it crashes into the wall with a sickening sound that makes Ella startle and then begin crying. Foggy presses his hand to her forehead, feeling how hot she is, and wondering when exactly it’s appropriate to take an infant to the hospital.

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy tells him, trying to shush her. “Would you calm down?”

Matt tries to take Ella from him, and there’s a tense moment as they both stand there, hearts racing with adrenaline. Then Foggy chides himself for being an idiot, handing Ella over to Matt with a sigh. “I’m going to order Thai food,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “We’ll both think more clearly when we’re full.”

With that he walks off to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him before dialing their usual place and getting a bit of everything that he knows that Matt likes. When he walks back out into the living room his pulse has slowed, and he feels a bit more in control of himself. Matt is cradling Ella to his chest, whispering nonsensical words to her as she plays with his hair.

“It should be here in about a half hour,” Foggy tells him, crouching down to pick up Matt’s phone and assessing the damage. The screen is definitely cracked, but it still seems like it’s still working.

“Thanks, Fog.”

“Your screen is totally cracked now, so good work on that.”

“I don’t know what to do. I can’t just walk out on Ella. On you…”

It’s killing him, but he can’t stand to see Matt so conflicted. So he says the only thing that he can think of to relieve the situation: “I can take care of her while you talk to Jessica. I hate to say it, but other people are counting on you too. Not just us. And those people matter, and their families matter, every bit as much as we do.”

“And what if something happens to me? And then Ella wouldn’t… you would have no legal right to her, you know.”

There’s a sick lurch in his stomach, because he knows that all too well. “Make sure you come home then.”

“These situations don’t tend to come with a whole lot of control.”

“I know.” They’re only inches apart now, and Foggy pulls him in for a kiss, Ella squashed awkwardly between them. “Call her back, and let her know that you can come talk. But only after you eat something first.”

He hands Matt his phone, taking Ella from his arms as he does so. He takes Ella into the kitchen, ready to get her something to eat as well. Over his shoulder he adds, “And I want you to tell her that if you don’t come home, that she’s going to have to answer to me… and that is not a conversation that she wants to have.”


	2. Conversations in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica Jones warns Matt about a potential new threat to Daredevil, and some drinking ensues. Foggy and Ella take a trip to the hospital, and Matt has a very memorable meeting with Rosalind Sharpe. Told from Matt's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter may or may not have been inspired by the fever I just suffered through. Hopefully nobody else out there is sick now, but 'tis the season as they say.

The walk to Jessica’s apartment isn’t a long one, and it doesn’t even require a subway ride or an Uber. But it’s still plenty long enough for Matt’s temper to build, and for his thoughts to turn dark. Because he broods as he walks, negative energy gathering around him like storm clouds as he thinks about how little of what happens in his life seems to be directly within his control. He hates that feeling, as if he's swimming upstream, constantly being knocked around by uncontrollable forces of nature. By the time he finds himself knocking on Jessica's door at just before 10 pm, he feels ready to burst with unexpressed frustration and impotent rage. The door swings inward after two knocks, the sharp smell of whiskey expelling outward like a toxic fume.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she says simply, holding the door open for him so that he can walk inside.

“What other choice did I have?” he replies, taking in the usual scents of Jessica Jones: leather and metal from her jacket and ass kicker boots, sandalwood and bergamot from her shampoo, and some sort of lotion that gives off a smell strangely akin to lavender (possibly given to her by Trish to try and control her anxiety). She also must have been in a fight recently, because her knuckles have split open, and the scent of blood lingers in the back of his throat like he's been licking copper pennies.

“I didn’t mean to sound so cranky on the phone,” she tells him, and he realizes that he’s receiving a rare gift: an actual apology from Jessica Jones. “It’s been a long few days… hell, who am I kidding? It’s been a long freaking life.”

She walks through a foyer and anteroom into the main area of her office, picking up a glass that's half full of whiskey and knocking it back. “You want some?” she asks, gesturing with it. “It’s, uh…”

“Jameson, yeah, I can smell it,” Matt tells her, giving her a small smile. He has a feeling that whatever she’s about to tell him, it isn’t necessarily her fault that he’s here. And she probably wouldn’t have bothered him if it wasn’t damn important. “Are we going anywhere tonight?”

“I don’t think you’re going to need to kick anyone in the face in the next few hours, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then yes, I’d love a glass.”

She pours him a healthy double dose, handing it over without much ceremony. He takes it from her and swings it back in almost one go just like she did, hissing as it burns its way down to his stomach. He sets the glass down as Jessica fiddles with something on her laptop. “I really did mean to call, you know,” she tells him, and he can hear her heartbeat thudding. “To say congratulations.”

“Congratulations on what? I’ve never understood it.” He laughs. “Congrats on the sex? Hope it was great, because now you’ve got a kid to deal with for the rest of your life?” It’s sour and bitter and he knows it, but somehow it feels good to have someone to commiserate with who isn’t going to judge him for putting a voice to some of his more nihilistic thoughts.

Much as he predicted Jessica just laughs and pours herself another glass of whiskey. “When I say congratulations, I think I mean ‘good luck.’” She laughs harder. “Also 'better you than me.' God knows what kind of shit parent I would be anyway.”

“I think you just figure it out as you go along,” Matt tells her. The alcohol he just downed is finally hitting him, lighting him up inside and making him feel wild and reckless. He pushes the empty glass back towards her. “Hit me,” he tells her, and she whistles.

“Sure you want to do that? It’s a school night and all.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Is whatever you’re about to tell me the kind of thing I should hear sober?”

She says nothing, just refills the glass, and that's answer enough. He sits on top of the desk, and they drink in silence for a few moments, commiserating without saying anything at all. With anyone else, he might offer to show them a picture of Ella on his phone, one of the three thousand that Foggy has sent him in spite of the fact that he himself can't see them. "But what if somebody asks, Matt? Then you can show them the Santa picture!" Any other person might then feel obligated to remark on how absolutely cute and perfect she is. But with Jessica no such fake sentiments are necessary, and he feels himself relaxing for the first time in what feels like weeks as his thoughts shift lanes from babies to vigilante business.

Sometimes he feels like he can only relax in moments like this - when the shit is hitting the fan, and everyone is assuming crash positions. Because somehow he only feels like he knows what he’s doing when there’s a crisis. When there’s something he can hit that can possibly hit him back - that’s his comfort zone. Just punch it until it goes away, or until he falls to the ground unconscious after giving it everything he’s got. Maybe that’s what he and Jessica, and Luke, and Danny, and all of the other costumed superheroes running around New York all have in common. Cool in a crisis but absolutely helpless in normal situations like taking care of a baby or keeping up a regular relationship. He takes another swig of his whiskey, completely finishing his second glass, before gesturing at Jessica. “Alright, I’m ready,” he tells her, even though he feels completely the opposite of ready.

“So I had a client come in a few days ago,” she tells him. “It didn't start off strange, but it sure ended that way. I always tape my initial conversations with clients, especially when they happen in my office. So listen to this, maybe it'll help somehow to have all the details.”

She pushes a button, and a video starts to play. He can hear a woman’s voice, high-pitched and tense. If he had to guess, he would put her age in her mid-40s: “It’s about my son, Miss Jones,” she says. “Antonio. I think...." gasping and what sounds like a muffled sob. He can hear the sound of tissues being pulled out of a box, and Jessica offering them to the woman.

"Thank you," the woman tells her before going on: "Antonio, he's always been a good boy before, but ever since we lost my husband a year ago he's started hanging out with a new crowd. And these people... I think they're dangerous, Miss Jones, to say the least. And now it's been days since I heard from him, and I have the school calling me saying that he hasn't been to class either. I just want to know that he's alright, and send a message telling him to come home, no matter what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into. I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just find him, please, I'm begging you. And help me bring him home.”

He can hear Jessica’s voice responding: “I can’t help with the bringing him home part, Mrs Valdez, but I can try to find him. Can you give me any information on where to start? Where was he hanging out, who was he…”

Jessica pushes a button on her laptop and the sound abruptly cuts off. “So I go about trying to track him down, and I found a lot of the usual stuff. Troubled kid, fights at school, fell into some kind of drug related gang activity, etc etc. Like I said, it seemed normal at first, routine even. Luckily Malcolm had some contacts who were helpful. Because it turns out that this is all related to some new designer drug, it's called Smile Z. Makes your emotions like a roller coaster, I guess? Intense euphoric highs, super shitty lows. Sounds like regular life to me, but what do I know? Ultimately it helped us track him down, because it's only being produced in one particular warehouse down near the docks. So I get to this warehouse, ready to bust the door in and try to drag this kid home. When I first get in on the ground level, all I saw were addicts and homeless teens. Most of them were passed out or semi-conscious. But the kid wasn't there, he was down below in the basement.”

She takes another swig of whiskey before continuing: “Down below was where the drugs were being produced, and trafficked out to dealers. They were also into some heavier types of activity, too. Illicit firearms dealing, the kind of thing you can't really buy from a regular distributor if you get my drift.”

“And what exactly makes this a Daredevil kind of thing instead of a police matter?” Matt asks her.

“So I finally found this kid downstairs, like I said,” Jessica goes on. "He was with this one other scum bag who was holding an entire bag of this Smile Z garbage. So this guy tried to fight me since somehow he thought I was robbing him, instead of just trying to convince the kid to come with me. When I started hitting back he starts up with all this lousy complaining, yelling about superheroes always cramping his style, asking if I knew that asshole with the horns who always sends him back to the slammer…”

Suddenly Matt feels like he might know where this is headed. Small time arms running and drug dealing? It's all too familiar: “Was his name Turk by any chance?”

Jessica props her feet up on her desk. “How'd you guess?”

“So this has to do with Turk then? What about him? He's a pretty small fish, and he usually just goes to jail and gets released again within a few months. But he's not exactly a master criminal."

“Well, I punched him in the face a few times, got a hold of Antonio, and I’m dragging him out. Turk ran off, and a few moments later, well that’s when I heard the screaming start. And that's the point when things started to get weird.”

“You said you heard screaming?”

“Yeah.” She pushes another button on her laptop. “This is security footage that I managed to swipe the next day. I wasn’t sure if I was going crazy or not, and I just wanted to make sure. I know you can’t see it, but maybe your ears can pick up on something that I missed…”

She pushes play, and he does indeed hear screaming. The kind of screams that indicate real fear and pain, and even the sound of rapid gunfire. Some of the men he can hear are screaming something about a monster, or a demon. “What’s going on in the video? Can you describe it to me?”

“It's blurry and fast paced. But it's all happening in the packaging area, where they're putting the drugs together and wrapping them up. A distribution line, you know? When it all starts up, a lot of the workers run away. But then a bunch of guys come out to fight her..."

"Her?"

"Yeah, it's a woman for sure. Small, moving fast. She looks well-trained in martial arts, a whole mix of different things. It's hard to get a great look, but she's wearing some sort of tank top and dark pants. No gun, just hand to hand combat. Kind of reminds me of you in a weird way."

“How many guys is she fighting?”

“More than I would want to take on at once.”

“Any other identifying features?” he asks. He holds out his glass, and she pours him another drink without asking why.

“A white hand print, right across her face. Also, her hair has feathers braided into it from what I can tell. I'm wondering if she's Native American, but like I said, it's hard to tell because the video quality is for shit.”

He nods, wondering what all of this has to do with him apart from the fact that it's really strange and involves a person who potentially has some sort of super powers./p>

"So, do you still remember how I said that Turk ran off after I hit him?" Jessica asks, and Matt nods. "Well, his bad day isn't quite over yet."

Matt can hear it now, Turk moaning and wheezing as if she’s just punched him in the gut. “What the hell, crazy lady?” he demands, voice full of anguish. “What is it about me, y’all gotta just bust up in here and do me like this…”

And that’s when she says it, and Matt can hear her words as clearly as if he's standing right next to her: “Where is Daredevil?” she howls, her voice full of mindless rage. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in weeks! He put me in the slammer ages ago. Then I got out, and I haven’t seen him since. I swear, that’s all I know!”

The sound of twisting sinews, the snap of his arm and more yelling: “Where did he find you? Where? I need a location. I want Daredevil!”

And then Turk is moaning something about the docks, and the video cuts off shortly after that, leaving them in resounding silence once again.

Matt’s stomach lurches uneasily. “Oh,” is all he says, and Jessica takes another swig of her drink.

“Oh is right, Devil Boy. I think you’ve got trouble with a capital ‘T’ headed your way. Just thought you might like a heads up, is all.”

\---

They drink the rest of their whiskey in silence, and Matt mumbles out a thank you before stumbling back to his apartment. When he gets home, he finds it dark and empty. He uses his VoiceOver app to call Foggy, hearing a tremble in his voice when he says his name out loud so that the app can dial his number. He isn’t sure what could possibly have induced Foggy to take Ella somewhere after midnight, but it can’t be anything good.

“Hey,” Foggy answers, and his voice is calm, but Matt can hear multiple voices and loud noises in the background. “Are you home already?”

Matt swallows, feeling his heart hammering in his throat. Based on the paging system he can hear, Foggy is at a hospital. “Yeah, I’m here. Where are you? And Ella, is she…”

“Everything is just fine, I didn't mean to scare you. We’re headed home now actually, coming from Metro General. I thought we might beat you, that’s why I didn’t call or leave a message… Sorry, excuse us, coming through…” There's a steady thrum of voices in the background, and the pinging of machines.

“What, uh, what’s going on?” The whiskey he’s consumed is making his thoughts sluggish, and all he wants is to lay down and get some well deserved rest.

“Ella had a bit of a fever, and after you left it got worse. I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay.”

“What did they say at the hospital?”

“They pretty much called me a hyperactive new parent,” Foggy grumbles, and Matt can hear the whoosh of Foggy stepping out of an automatic door, and then the loud blaring sound of street traffic. “But they prescribed some medication for her, so it was all worth it.”

Matt walks into his bedroom, sitting down on the bed with a definite sense of relief. His heart is still pounding, but it’s headed back down to its regular rhythm. He's feeling slightly flushed himself, although whether he's coming down with something or it's down to the alcohol he can't really say. “Well that’s a relief.”

“What did Jessica have to say?”

He tugs at his tie, loosening it and thinking happily about sweat pants and soft sheets and laying down in bed cuddled up with Foggy. “I think I should wait to tell you in person.”

A groan from the other end. “That bad, huh?”

He gives up on removing his clothes, laying back and moaning as cool silk comes into contact with his skin. “That weird, actually.”

“Don’t fall asleep before I get there,” Foggy instructs him.

But he can already feel darkness closing in on him, brought on by too much whiskey and the rush of stress from his conversation with Jessica and now this new situation with Ella’s fever. “No promises,” he murmurs. He doesn’t even remember hanging up after that, but he wakes briefly to Foggy slipping his shoes and pants off.

“Is Ella okay?” he whispers as the covers are pulled up around him.

“She’ll be fine, Matt. You seem exhausted, let’s just get some rest. For now, I'm just happy that you're home and safe. Maybe if we pray hard enough, tomorrow will just take care of itself.”

 _If only,_ he thinks to himself as he drifts off. _If only._

\---

The next few days pass by in a blur. Matt wants to go out on patrol to try and track down the mysterious figure that Jessica described, but both he and Foggy wind up coming down with Ella’s fever. They spend most of the week in various states of misery: Foggy out of the office on Tuesday and Wednesday with Matt covering for him, and then their roles reversing on Thursday and Friday.

By the time that Saturday rolls around, Matt feels ready to give up on ever going out as Daredevil again. “How do parents do this?” he moans from the couch, shivering and pulling the blanket that Foggy threw over him up around his ears. It seems like he just goes from one extreme to the other, either boiling hot and sweating or shivering half to death. His head feels like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, and he’s barely been able to keep any food down at all.

“Ah, come on, you’re always such a baby when you’re sick,” Foggy says, taking the seat next to him and fighting him for space under the blanket.

Matt grumbles, but rearranges himself so that Foggy can sit opposite him. Their feet brush under the blanket like they’re playing footsie. “Did you finally get Ella to sleep?”

“Yeah, I think she’s going to be out for awhile. Her fever seems to be gone for now though.”

“Well that makes precisely one of us.”

He can hear Foggy’s pulse thudding erratically, and he wonders what he’s so nervous about. He makes a mental note to talk to him about eating better so that his resting heart rate can just be a tiny bit healthier. “So are you going to call and cancel your meeting with Rosalind tonight?”

_Ah God, is that tonight?_

He leans his head back against the couch cushions and lets out a moan. Foggy laughs at his antics, running a foot up his thigh. “Just say you’re too sick,” he says. “You don’t want to spread your germs, after all.”

“It’s too late to cancel now,” Matt grumbles, giving in to the inevitable and standing up. He shuffles off to the bathroom like a zombie, running some hot water and rinsing himself off. He rushes a toothbrush over him teeth and gums, trying to get the taste of sickness out of his mouth. He wishes that he had time to shave, but it's too late for that really. Maybe he looks okay though...

“You look like a hobo with that beard you’re growing,” Foggy tells him from the doorway.

“Always so positive,” Matt chuckles, running his hand over the admittedly lengthy hair on his face. “What did I ever do without you here to tell me these things?”

“I have no idea.” He can hear his feet walking away, and the sound of the closet opening. When he walks out of the bathroom, toweling himself off, Foggy has already laid out one of his best suits on the bed.

“Do you really think I have to wear that?” he asks, trying to ignore the way that Foggy’s heartbeat has gone erratic for a whole other reason now. Apparently the partial nudity on display is enough to arouse some sort of interest in spite of how sick they both still are. He isn't sure if he'll let him near him given his still raging fever, but maybe after the meeting with Rosalind tonight he can convince him to...

“It’s probably best to go with a full suit of armor for this occasion,” Foggy replies, dragging him back to the present with a tug. After a bit of a silence, he adds: “Are you still sure that you want to go alone?”

“Someone has to stay with Ella while she sleeps.” He slips on his pants regretfully, buttoning up his too-stiff work shirt, and hissing at the brush of the starched collar against his sensitive skin. For some reason, being sick always seems to make his skin hurt, although he doesn’t really understand just why that is.

He wishes he could just lounge around the apartment all night instead of braving the frigid night air for a meeting that he really, really doesn't want to attend. He doesn't want to make awkward conversation with the woman who made Foggy feel somehow defective and damaged. And he was largely bluffing when he said that he could be a neutral party in all of this. Because he’s never been a neutral party where Franklin Nelson is concerned, and the thought of having to sit down and have a civilized conversation with someone who abandoned Foggy and then continued to make him feel like shit for most of his life is so galling that he can barely think straight.

But he has to keep his cool tonight, and not lose his temper. He fumbles with his tie, relinquishing control to Foggy, who tugs him in tightly to twist the knot properly. “You’re sure you feel well enough to do this?”

Internally he thinks to himself: _I p_ _robably won't ever feel well enough to do this, but what choice do we have?_

All he vocalizes out loud is, “Better to just get it over with.”

Foggy leans forward, resting his forehead against Matt’s. Their lips briefly brush together, but the kiss is innocent and chaste. “Try not to let her get to you.”

Matt pulls Foggy in for a firmer kiss, a promise of things to come later on in the night if he has anything to say about it. “I’ll be back before you realize I’m gone.”

\---

The coffee shop is overcrowded and noisy, full of the overwhelming sound of a million and one conversations, clattering plates, and the hiss of steam and foam. Matt hates it, instantly wishing that he was home in the darkened hush of his apartment, pressing up against Foggy while they both watch television, then pushing him backwards down on the couch, rubbing himself down against him…

He shakes himself, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Meeting new people is always an awkward situation for him to navigate on his own. Even if he knows what they look like or can discern who they are through other cues, he still has to pretend that he's just your average blind man. Which means that he has to wait on the other person to make the first move, and if they’re timid means he can be left standing on his own for quite awhile -

“Mister Murdock, I presume?” The voice is cultured and intelligent, peppered throughout with the upper crust accent that only comes courtesy of a very particular kind of education. He smells expensive perfume, and a whiff of hair dye that indicates that it's been freshly done.

“And you must be Rosalind,” Matt says, trying to force his mouth into a smile. He feels phony, and like she must surely be able to see how nervous he is, in spite of his efforts to keep calm. He extends a hand in her direction, deliberately putting it a bit askew to see what her reaction will be.

She gives a soft chuckle, reaching out to meet him halfway. The press of her hand is cold, possibly poor circulation or just due to the snowy weather. Her handshake is firm though, and her skin has the softness of someone who works in an office all day instead of doing manual labor. He wasn’t kidding when he told his friends that relatives often have a similar smell, and he can detect a whiff of something in her natural scent that speaks of Foggy. He never noticed that Anna lacked it, but then again it never occurred to him to look for any sort of discrepancy before now.

“I am indeed,” she says, wincing as a barista drops a plate and it shatters, prompting an absurd round of applause from the other customers. “A bit noisy in here, isn’t it?” she continues, and he nods in response. “I took the liberty of asking about a private room, and the manager ever so kindly offered us his office.”

Matt tilts his head. _Oh he did, did he? And what exactly did you say to him to get him to extend that kind of offer?_

“That was very thoughtful of you,” is all he says to her though, dutifully taking her proffered arm as she leads him towards the back. 

“I also took the liberty of ordering you a plain coffee, hopefully you don’t mind the presumption.” He can sense her gesturing to an empty chair, and he can smell the sweet aroma of a well brewed cup of coffee. He takes the chair, tracing the back of it carefully and trying to play up a bit of helplessness as he does so. Let her underestimate him, let her think him incapable and weak. It would only lure her into a false sense of complacency.

She takes the chair opposite his, sipping on a cup of earl grey. It is definitely much quieter back here in the office, especially with the door closed tightly behind them, effectively cutting off the loud chatter and various body odors that were previously assaulting his senses. “So I understand that you and Foggy haven’t seen much of each other these past few years,” Matt tells her, listening to her pulse jump at the aggressive edge in his voice. He really hadn’t meant to start off with something resembling an accusation, but the words tumble out of him without his permission. And then they're gone, and it's too late to take it back.

“My, my, Mister Murdock. Such a startling way to start a conversation,” she says, sipping her tea. He can tell that she's gazing at him over the rim of it, assessing every inch of him from his clothes to his hair and back again. Although why she's paying such particular attention to him is still a mystery.

“From what I understand, you aren’t a woman who cares much for someone wasting their time. I thought you might appreciate a straightforward approach.”

She’s chuckling under her breath, and he can tell that he’s amused her. She settles back a bit in her chair, letting the silence between them linger. “I don’t know if you're aware of this or not, but I have a lot of close friends at Landman and Zack,” she tells him eventually. “So I've already heard quite a bit about you. Your departure directly after your internship was quite a shock as well as a disappointment to many who were observing your progress. The type of position that they extended to you does not simply come to everyone fresh out of law school, as I'm sure you already know. What a slap in the face it was when you turned them down.”

“Foggy leaving was just as much of a disappointment to them, if not more so." Matt can’t help but say it, his voice sharp and brittle like glass. He doesn’t know where she’s going with all of this, why the odd focus on his career, and not on family matters like he expected. Maybe he totally misunderstood her purpose in asking for a meeting. He feels sick and overly hot, and he wants to take off his coat, but he doesn’t want to indicate that he’s settling in for a long stay.

“Foggy,” she chortles, and there’s something cruel in her voice that sets his teeth on edge. “Yes, I have heard that you call Franklin that. What an absurd nickname.”

_Okay, I’ve had just about enough of this..._

“Ms. Sharpe…”

“Rosalind, please.”

“Rosalind.” He tries to take a deep breath, feeling like his scarf is choking him. “I'm not sure why now, but for some reason I thought you might have been motivated to reach out to us because of my relationship with your son…”

“Yes, naturally that is why I reached out. Because of your relationship with Franklin - your legal partnership, that is. I have to admit that I’ve admired your work, Mr. Murdock. You and my son handled the Wilson Fisk case brilliantly. Not to mention that stirring speech that Franklin gave when he was still running that ridiculously ill managed political campaign. He was quite a popular dark horse contender for District Attorney before he dropped out of the race so suddenly. Many were curious to see how many votes he steal away from his opponent before someone stopped him.”

_Politics? Could all of this really be about …_

“You seem to be quite the team, the pair of you together, that is. And my legal firm is interested in acquiring the both of you.”

“Acquiring us?” He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Even from all of the warnings that Foggy gave him, he still finds himself flabbergasted. Could she really have asked him here to talk about the legal profession? What about Foggy? What about Ella...

“Yes, and I think you should seriously consider the offer that I'm going to extend to you on Monday afternoon. You’ll be folded into my firm as full partners, with access to all of our resources, all of our prestigious connections…” She sips coolly from her tea again as if she has all the time in the world to sit there and try to convince him to give up on having his own law firm. “You know that with a bit more management, either yourself or Franklin could run a true political campaign. You could wind up the District Attorney, or even Mayor, Mr. Murdock. Just think of that. The two of you are hardly capitalizing on all of your potential, especially considering your appeal as a non-traditional family unit…”

He’s on his feet before he realizes it, shoving his chair back so abruptly that it nearly falls over. “I’m not interested in any of that,” he says, feeling a hot flush creep up into his cheeks. “And neither is Foggy.”

“Sit back down, please, and do stop being so ridiculously dramatic. This display is utterly uncalled for and completely unprofessional.”

“Completely unprofessional…” he feels like words are failing him, but he stumbles onward. “So I’m to understand that this meeting was entirely about our law firm? Not…”

“Not what?” She may be sitting with him towering over her, but there’s no doubt who’s really in control of what's unfolding here. Somewhere along the way she assumed total control of the conversation, although he isn’t sure when it happened. Maybe from the moment she first said hello and shook his hand.

“You don’t want to know Foggy, do you? Not as your son, anyway. And you don’t want to know our daughter, either.”

It's the first time that he's called Ella 'ours' instead of just 'his,' but it feels right, like it was meant to be that way all along.

She laughs again, the sound piercing straight through him like a punch to the ribs. “And why ever would I want to do that?”

“Because he’s worth knowing, Rosalind! Because he’s your son…”

“Would it make some sort of difference to your decision regarding a merger between our legal firms if I evinced an interest in him or your child?”

He feels sweat gathering on his back and forehead. “No, it would not,” he grits out. “And I think that this conversation is over.”

He turns to go, her voice ringing out behind him: “Don’t be so foolish, Mr. Murdock. Consider my offer seriously. Or you may live to regret it.”

The cool night air is shocking on his feverish skin, but it helps to clear his mind. He winds up walking home, snow swirling around him and his thoughts racing the entire way.

\---

He opens the door to the apartment with a bang, heedless of whether or not Ella might be sleeping. He probably should have paused somewhere along the way to try and calm down, but all he could think about was getting home, home to Foggy and Ella, where things make some sort of sense…

“Are you okay?”

He’s trapped in his coat, tugging on it and getting tangled in his scarf in the process.

“Here, here, let me help.”

Foggy is sliding his scarf off then, and he takes a deep, rasping breath, finally feeling like he can breath. He throws his coat to the side, heedless of where it lands or if it’s getting dirty. He jerks at his tie with rapid, hasty movements.

“You’re all sweaty, Matt, what happened?”

“I think you know what happened,” he retorts, and he can feel Foggy’s hands undoing his tie as surely as he knotted it in the first place. “God, I feel like I can’t get enough air.”

“You’re definitely burning up. You never should have gone to that meeting in the first place!” More muttering as buttons are undone on his shirt, and then the shirt tails are untucked from his pants. He’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, and cool air hits him when he shrugs his button up off. It lands on the floor somewhere with a soft thump. Foggy's hands are on his belt when Matt realizes fully what’s happening, and he leans in to press a fever hot kiss against the other man's mouth.

“What are you doing?” Foggy asks. “You need a cold shower, in more ways than one.”

“It was awful,” he groans, resting his head on Foggy's shoulder as he feels deft hands unbuckle his belt and push his pants down. He kicks the pants off, leaving him in just his shirt and boxers.

“I told you it would be. Come on, let’s get you some water. It'll make you feel cooler at least.”

He lets himself be led to the kitchen, Foggy's hand in his own. He pours Matt a glass of cold water, which is rapidly gulped down. Foggy is clearly already dressed for bed in sweat pants and a loose shirt, and he leans against the counter top as Matt drinks the water down like a man dying of thirst.

“Did you find out what she wanted at least?”

Matt sets the glass down with a loud thunk. “She wants to merge our law firms together.”

“What?” Foggy’s voice is full of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Would I say it if I wasn’t? Who could make up something that horrible?”

A long, breathy exhalation from Foggy’s nose and then: “I tried to warn you.”

“You definitely did.” He turns to Foggy, reaching out for him and feeling warm arms wrap around him. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

“You realize that this probably isn’t the last that we’ll hear from her, right?”

Matt sneaks a kiss against Foggy’s temple, ducking his head lower and tucking another one down near his ear. “She said that she’d be sending some paperwork over on Monday outlining her business proposal.”

Foggy shivers, tilting his head to give Matt better access to his neck. “I’ll look forward to that with great anticipation.” He’s subtly maneuvering Foggy back up against the counter, nipping kisses along his neck. “Are you… Matt you have a fever.”

“And lucky you, you’ve already had it. So you can’t get it again.” His hands trace downwards, mapping out Foggy’s chest and dipping lower.

“That isn't even true, Matt! We should talk more about what happened, ah, what happened with Rosalind.” Even though Foggy is protesting, he’s still not pushing him away, not even when Matt's hand tugs at the waistband of his pants.

Matt grins against his neck. “I would rather talk about something more pleasant right now. Or maybe not talk at all.”

“Ella’s asleep in the bedroom again.”

“Ah, that poor couch can handle another round of us, don’t you think?”

He can feel the hardness of Foggy’s cock through his pants, teasing him with his hands and pausing as if he’s waiting for a real answer. “You know, sometimes I think you might actually be the devil himself, Murdock.”

“You love me for it, though.”

He means it as a joke, but it comes out oddly serious, and he wants to bite his own tongue off when Foggy suddenly freezes beneath his hands. But then he finds himself enveloped in a firm kiss, and it turns out that the couch really is a viable alternative for a bed after all.


	3. True Potential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen meets Rosalind Sharpe when she stops by the office to make her business proposal. Also featuring: Frank making burgers! And one very compelling offer to go bowling is extended.

Even though Matt let Karen know to expect some sort of business proposal, she never really expected to see the woman behind Sharpe LLP in the flesh. Based on the description that Foggy gave her of Rosalind, Karen imagined that she would consider it beneath herself to hand deliver the paperwork. Instead, she fully expected some poor intern or sweating courier would be given the sad task of delivering it, and then they would have to wait around awkwardly for an answer. So she's utterly shocked when the door swings open at half past noon, and into Nelson, Murdock, and Page walks a statuesque woman with a perfectly coiffed black bob with a swirl of white running through the front, who she immediately realizes must be Rosalind Sharpe.

She's wearing an expensive-looking black Armani suit with shiny silver buttons running down the front, and a black and white coat with an asymmetrical cut that perfectly hugs her figure. For some odd reason, she reminds Karen of Meryl Streep. Maybe it’s something in the confident way that she holds herself... Or maybe... She feels her heart sinking with dismay. Maybe it’s all in the cutting look that she gives her as she hands over a large packet of papers in a perfectly bundled series of envelopes. Because between the clothes and the raised eyebrow, she now knows who Rosalind reminds her of: Miranda Priestly, the demonically driven editor-in-chief and fashion icon from the movie  _The Devil Wears Prada_.

The impression only grows as she feels Rosalind’s eyes roving over her, taking in her white silky tank top, her loose gray cardigan, and her form fitting green pencil skirt. Even though none of her clothes are brand new, all of it is well tailored and came from a designer label at one point. But she still feels schlubby standing there next to Rosalind, wishing that she had bothered to wash her hair last night rather than throwing it up in a messy bun instead. She’s also acutely aware now that she looks down at herself that she has a coffee stain on the front of her sweater, and that there are still some residual crumbs clinging to her from the coffee cake that she consumed earlier on that day.

Everything in Rosalind’s gaze seems to indicate that she’s been judged and then rated as subpar, and all of that is clearly communicated to her before she even opens her mouth to speak. But Karen wouldn’t have gotten very far in her career as a jounalist if she was easily intimidated, and she beats Rosalind to the punch by speaking first.

“You must be Rosalind Sharpe,” she says, savoring the satisfaction of watching the other woman's mouth clamp shut into a tiny moue of distaste. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Rosalind smiles, something predatory lingering on her lips. “And you must be Karen Page. I’ve actually heard a lot about you from Mitchell Ellison. He's such a dear old friend of mine, and so helpful too. Such a shame that the paper had to let you go, and under such dubious circumstances.”

Karen takes the packet of envelopes from Rosalind, setting them down squarely on the desk. Foggy and Matt both stepped out of the office moments beforehand, ostensibly to pick something up for lunch, and she curses their poor timing. It’s their lunch hour, which means that there’s currently no clients in the office, effectively trapping her with Rosalind until they return. What kind of lunch run really required both of them anyway? They’re probably just making out in a stairwell somewhere like a pair of horny teenagers, and here she is alone with a woman who seems like she wants to eat all of them alive.

“It’s been awhile now since I wrote for The Bulletin,” Karen says, pretending to rearrange some papers on her already perfectly clean desk.

“Yes it has been, and that’s an awful shame,” Rosalind replies. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit down, Ms. Page. Even though you haven’t invited me to do so.”

_Do you need an invitation just to sit down?_

“I’m sorry, Ms. Sharpe." She pronounces it Miz, just like Rosalind did moments beforehand, hitting the z with a hard inflection. “Is there anything else I can get you while you wait? I assume you’ll want to see Foggy before you go, but he's out getting lunch with Matt. He should be back soon though - would you some water while you wait? Coffee?”

“I prefer organic tea, dear, that is when I can get it. I highly doubt that you…”

“We have it in spades, _Ms_. Sharpe. You’ll find that Matt is actually quite the tea connoisseur, as well as preferring all things organic. Allow me to make you a cup.”

_At least it’ll give me something to do with my hands._

“I’m impressed, _Ms._ Page. Most firms of your size just offer sour, burnt coffee, and water from a cooler that’s been sitting in the corner for years.” Rosalind crosses her legs, sitting primly in the chair like she’s the Queen of England, and Karen is her servant. 

“Well, we’re not most ‘firms of our size,’” she retorts, pouring some of the distilled water from the fridge into the hot water kettle.

“Of course you’re not. Most firms of your size wouldn’t dare to take on a case as serious as the People of New York City vs. Wilson Fisk.”

Karen nearly drops the kettle at that. But she regains her internal equilibrium, setting it back down onto the heating coil. Once she pushes the button down that will set it to boiling, she no longer has an excuse to not look at Rosalind. Their eyes meet, and there’s something in the other woman’s gaze that makes her feel utterly naked and vulnerable. “Yes, we’re definitely a special firm. I’m very lucky to work with Foggy and Matt. As I'm sure you know, they’re both incredibly talented attorneys, and passionate about what they do.”

“Naturally, Miss Page. Franklin has always been full of wasted potential. It's sad, really it is.” She looks around at their office, taking in the beaten up chairs, the ancient office equipment, the windows that are caked with grime and which look out onto a barren lot. “To think of where he was just a few months ago, at the renowned firm of Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz. And then he left all that to come back to this…”

Karen grits her teeth as anger rises up within her. “We might not have the fanciest office equipment, but at least we still have our integrity.”

“Indeed.” She raises her eyebrows again pointedly. “And what about you, Karen? What exactly do you bring to this equation?”

Her face feels like it’s flushing red and hot as anger courses through her. “I thought you talked to Ellison about me.” A nod, and she pushes on, “Then you’re already more than aware of my skills at investigating, and pursuing the real story until it reveals itself. If you ask me, this city could use more people who are dedicated to the truth.”

“Yes, of course. My point, however…”

The tea kettle is already whistling, and Karen hurries to turn her back and pour the hot water into a mug, tossing a tea bag into it haphazardly. “Would you like some honey? It’s organic and from some sort of farm upstate that Matt swears by.”

“Just a spoonful, if you please.”

Karen puts it together, handing the mug over and resisting the urge to add, G _o ahead, hopefully you burn yourself while you're at it._

“Please sit and join me.” Rosalind gestures at the chair opposite her, and Karen can’t help but glance at the clock wondering where in the hell Matt and Foggy have gotten to. She sits all the same, smoothing her skirt underneath herself as she does so. “My point is not any kind of flaw or failing in you, Ms. Page. Quite the opposite in fact. I’ve read your articles and followed your career with great interest. You are indeed a driven young woman. And my concern is that your talents far exceed this humble little office.”

Rosalind holds a hand up when she opens her mouth to protest. “Please, allow me to finish my statement. I was a young woman like yourself once. And if you'll excuse the comparison, I think that I see many similarities between us, Ms. Page. I was also motivated. Passionate. Burning with the desire to change the world. And it might be hard for you to understand, but at that time being a woman pursuing a legal career was a difficult thing. It was very much a man’s world then, and I had to make many decisions that didn’t exactly make me a popular person around the water cooler. Or even in my own home, as a matter of fact. And at one point, I was forced to make a decision between those two worlds, and to this day that still haunts me.”

She takes a calm, collected sip of her tea. “And as much as things have changed, it galls me to see a young woman such as yourself, who is in possession of so many talents, _still_ playing second fiddle to two men. Because these two men, while they have been extremely lucky in their careers, are not what you need to push you forward. No, what you need is a challenge. You need opportunities to grow. And you’re never going to get that here. You’re only going to fester, staying right where you are, never growing beyond what Mister Murdock and my hapless son allow you to be.”

She feels pretty sure that her mouth is hanging open in pure shock, and she isn’t sure what to even say to all of that, except: “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong you don’t even know how ridiculous you sound!”

“Am I? Then please do enlighten me.”

“Foggy and Matt have never held me back! They’ve always encouraged me, supported me…" She feels like her face is on fire, like she's so furious that she can't even think straight. "I can’t even believe you would suggest otherwise. You don’t know me, you don't know any of us!”

Adrenaline is surging through her, and she stands up, walking around to sit behind her desk, wanting to put some room between herself and Rosalind. The other woman seems unperturbed by her outburst, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in her skirt, and regarding her with a cool look as if she’s an animal in a zoo, and she's just a casual observer. “That’s quite a bit of emotion you’re displaying, Ms. Page. If things are as wonderful as you say they are, then why would it bother you so much what I say? Because if there’s no truth to my claim, then surely you wouldn’t be having this violent and altogether juvenile outburst, now would you?"

Karen opens her mouth to tell her where she can stick her critical commentary, but luckily the door to the office swings open, effectively ending their conversation. And there’s Matt and Foggy, both of them carrying bags of take out with them. They obviously already know that Rosalind is there, because they enter quiet and somber, utterly unusual for them after sneaking out of the office together.

Foggy in particular looks stricken, his face pale and lined with stress. Matt takes the bags from him, setting them in the kitchenette. Rosalind stands, and there’s a long moment of tense silence as she regards her son. “Franklin,” she says finally. “It’s been a long time.” She looks him up and down, coolly stating, “I like your suit,” in a manner that actually makes it sound like an insult.

“It has been,” is all Foggy says. There’s a tiny tremor running through him, and Karen realizes that he’s shaking.

“We’re actually running out of time on our lunch hour, Rosalind,” Matt says, emerging from the kitchenette to settle a hand on Foggy’s shoulder and stand next to him. “And I’ve already told you what I think about your business proposal.”

“I’m not here for you today, Mister Murdock, tempting as it might be to go another round with you.” Her smile is all teeth as she says, “Today I’m here to talk to my son. In private, if you please.” She gestures towards his darkened office. “After you, Franklin.”

His gaze swings towards Matt, and Rosalind makes a clucking noise. “Now surely you don’t need permission from your partner to have a conversation, do you? You haven’t even heard any details of my offer yet. I would advise you in the future to consider all angles before simply deferring to the most alpha male present in the room with you.”

“If I listen to you for fifteen minutes, will you leave and promise not to come back?” Foggy asks, and there’s something in his voice that Karen has never heard before. Like it’s utterly devoid of any hint of emotion or feeling.

“Fifteen minutes will do just fine. I’m a busy woman, as I'm sure you know.”

And with that, they disappear into the office. Foggy doesn’t look back at them as he shuts the door, leaving himself and his birth mother alone. Karen crosses her arms, staring at them through the glass. Neither one of them sits down - Rosalind just talks, and Foggy listens, hanging his head in a dogged and defeated way that breaks Karen's heart to see.

“What do you imagine she’s saying to him in there?” Karen asks Matt.

He’s fiddling with the food on the countertop, but in a way that suggests that he's just looking for something to do, rather than out of genuine hunger. “You should probably stop staring,” he says.

She gives a disgusted sigh and walks back to her desk, picking up her by-now freezing coffee and drinking some of it. “You can hear them, can’t you?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“So you could probably hear what she said to me, too? Before both of you came in?”

He doesn’t respond, and she takes that as an affirmative. She unbundles one of the envelopes and slides the papers out. “Well, she included some of the business proposal in braille at least. How thoughtful of her.”

Matt’s head tilts suddenly towards Foggy’s office, and Karen knows that no matter he says to contrary, he’s definitely listening to at least part of the conversation. “Rude to stare, huh?” she saying mockingly, scanning over the parts of the business proposal that she can read.

“Sometimes it’s hard not to,” he replies as the door to Foggy’s office opens, expelling Rosalind in a cloud of expensive perfume.

“You should tell your glorified secretary to not read paperwork that isn’t addressed to her,” she says, opening the outer door and closing it with a bang.

Foggy is still standing in his office, looking as still and pale as a statue.

“Well that was about as pleasant as being run over by a bus,” Karen announces, watching Matt rush into the office to check on Foggy. She looks back down at the paperwork, giving a tiny whistle as she looks at the theoretical numbers displayed on it. “Then again, money like this buys you a lot of tissues to cry into.”

\---

Foggy really doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about whatever it is that Rosalind said to him in the privacy of his office. He’s quiet and withdrawn for the rest of the day, and Karen feels awkwardly caught in the middle, both emotionally as well as physically as Matt shoots nervous glances from his office all afternoon that fly over her head and land on Foggy, diligently working on some bureaucratic paperwork at his desk. She can't say that she blames Matt for his concern though, still feeling a bit unsettled by Rosalind's words. She tells herself that it's stupid to dwell on the words of a stranger, but for some reason she can't stop thinking about what she said. She’s always told herself that they’re a team, the three of them against the rest of the world. Nelson, Murdock, and Page. And now she even has her name on the door plate to prove it.

But for some reason her words keep eating away at her slowly, like water slowly dripping and wearing away at a riverbed. She was more than happy to come back and work here, she reminds herself. After Ellison fired her for failing to reveal Daredevil’s secret identity, she had wanted nothing more than to just come back to the comfort of what she knew. What she was good at. She taps her pencil on her desk, watching the seconds tick away slowly on the wall clock. She can only imagine how frustrating it must be to be Matt sometimes, forced to hear each and every sound amplified ten thousand times over again.

Finally, finally, finally it’s quitting time. She tries to say something to Foggy about Rosalind, but Matt quietly shakes his head and makes a slashing motion across his throat indicating that she shouldn't bring it up. She glares at him but takes the hint, bundling herself up in her coat and making her way slowly home. When she opens the door to her apartment, the delicious smell of burgers cooking hits her, along with the smell of mushrooms and onions. It’s odd how a six foot something man who can intimidate the hell out of trained military personnel can also manage to look so sheepish and young at times, but Frank manages it somehow. He looks like he’s made himself at home in her place, wearing jeans, a loose gray Henley, and nothing whatsoever on his feet. For some reason the sight of his bare feet on her wooden floor makes her smile, and she drops her purse on the couch along with her coat.

“Hope it’s okay that I broke in,” Frank says. The grease in the pan is bubbling and spattering, and the heat from the oven where he’s cooking french fries has warmed the entire apartment up considerably. It's nice to come home to after the chill of the January weather outside, and Karen can feel herself relaxing right away.

“I gave you a key, so it’s not exactly breaking in. Also, anytime you want to provide me with free food, you are more than welcome to be here.” She kicks her heels off, standing on one foot to rub at the bottom of the opposite one. 

“Long day?”

He turns back to the stove again, flipping the burgers over with a spatula.

“It sure felt like it.” She makes her way over to the stove, brushing herself up against him like a cat marking her scent. “Rosalind Sharpe came by our office today.”

“That’s Nelson’s birth mother right?”

She nods, tucking herself against his back and snuggling her chin in near the juncture of his arm. Last week she told Frank about the unfolding situation with Foggy, glad to have someone to finally confide in about this entire situation whose name was something other than Murdock. “She’s definitely something else.”

“A real piece of work, huh? I’ve met some mothers like that before. Some fathers too for that matter. Back up, I think these are done, and I don’t want you to get hit with hot grease.”

They eat on the couch with the tv off, and she’s always amazed at how easy and simple things seem with Frank. If it wasn’t for everything that they’ve been through together, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was once a wanted fugitive, she could almost kid herself that they’re just another normal couple, having a quiet night in together. The burger itself is insanely delicious, and she makes a mental note to ask him what kind of spice he used on the meat.  
  
But when Frank goes to take another bite of his burger, the sleeve of his shirt rides up his arm, and she can see a long, red angry welt that looks disturbingly like a burn mark. “What the hell is that?” she demands.

He has the nerve to try and look innocent, as if he has no idea what she’s talking about. “What’s what?” he asks, mouth full of burger.

She sets her plate down, grabbing his arm and shoving his sleeve up. It’s definitely a burn mark, and brand new by the looks of it. It’s shiny and raw-looking, and she wonders why he doesn’t have a bandage over it. Then again, maybe he thought that would draw more of her attention.

“What’s this?” She isn’t happy about repeating herself, a fact she tries to convey with a glacial stare. “You know that I’m not stupid right? This isn’t some old battle scar, this is a brand new burn mark. I’m not judging you, I just want to know what the hell is going on.”

“It’s nothing,” he tells her, also setting his plate aside. His eyes are sincere, the ends of his hair falling into his eyes.

“Nothing, huh?”

When he sees that she clearly isn’t satisfied with that non-explanation he gives a loud groan and resettles himself back into his spot on the couch. “You remember Special Agent Madani, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but what does that have to do with - ”

“She just needed a little help is all. Someone to watch her back while she took care of some business. Someone she trusted, that is. I owe her a lot, so I helped out. That’s all there is too it.” With a shrug, he picks up his plate as if the matter is totally closed, and starts in on his burger again.

“Someone to watch her back?” She cocks an eyebrow at him, picking up her own plate again to poke at some of her fries.

“Well, her and Micro… David. They’re working together. It’s a complicated case, something to do with tracking down the producers of a new designer drug. All I know is she called me, and I owe her one. So I go and help her out. Simple as that.” He stands up to walk back over to the stove, clearly loading up on seconds.

“So is this going to be a thing now? Are you…. Are you working for the government? I mean, if you're working with her...”

“Hell no, I was just helping Madani.”

Her eyes narrow. “Which automatically means working for the government.”

Frank gives an exasperated sigh. “I was doing something useful. Not like I have a lot going on these days. Is it going to be a problem for you?”

“No, it’s not a problem.” She crosses her legs beneath herself as he rejoins her, offering her some of the extra fries off of his plate. “Just don’t cut me out, okay? I want to know what’s going on.”

He stares at her, his eyes serious. At long last, he nods, and she figures that’s about as much as she’s going to get on this topic. She reaches for another fry, dipping it in ketchup before popping it into her mouth. “So how is David these days anyway? If he’s working with Madani, he isn’t exactly assimilating back into civilian life, is he?”

“I don’t know, he's a strange guy all around. He actually asked me if we wanted to go bowling with him and his wife, as if we're just work buddies or something.”

“Are you serious?” She can’t hold in her laughter, and Frank makes a ridiculous face at her, totally distorting his features.

“Dead serious.”

She slides her feet under his legs, cuddling up to him. “So do you want to go?”

“What, bowling? Like we’re regular mother fucking people?” For some reason, it doesn’t seem like he wants to look at her, and their joking conversation is turning into something a bit more serious.

“Matt does things like that, and he isn’t exactly…”

“He’s retired now, isn’t he? Because of the baby?”

He seems to be getting more and more upset, but she isn't sure why. “He did things before that though, hung out with us and played pool at Josie’s, you know…”

“I just don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he says, shaking his head. “Somebody could see us together, somebody could recognize me. It could put you in danger. Or David’s family. He's got a son and a daughter, you know."

“Someone could have seen us at the Christmas Party, too, Frank.”

“And somebody recognized me there, didn’t they? You’re just proving my point, Karen.”

He’s still shaking his head, stacking their plates on top of each other before taking them over to the sink to wash them. She recognizes a brush off when she sees one, but she isn’t interested in taking no for an answer. Regular contact with an average family could only do him some good, and she isn't sure why he's protesting so much. His anger seems to have transferred to the dishes, as he scrubs them way harder than he needs to. The bristles makes a horrific scratching noise against the ceramic plates, and she winces.

“I can wash those, you know. You cooked.” She settles for leaning back against the countertop when he doesn't respond, watching the corded muscles in his neck and back work as he continues to scrub away viciously.

“I got it.”

“Maybe we don’t have to go bowling, maybe we could - ”

He throws the plate down into the soapy water, and she hears it crack. He’s glaring at her, and she takes an involuntary step backwards.

“What do you think, huh? You think I don’t want to do all those things? You think I don’t want to go out for a night on the town, show you off? You think that I’m not dying to take you out for a fancy dinner? Lobster and a suit, and all of that? But no, we can’t even go to the fucking movies without worrying that I'll be goddamn arrested when some pimply faced teenager picks up the phone and calls the FBI hotline! Karen, baby, I know the danger, and I can’t do that to you. Because it's not worth the risk. If you wanted all that, you should have stuck with Murdock. But I can’t do those things! And if you can’t accept that, then maybe, maybe…”

His chest is heaving, and his breathing is erratic. The words "Maybe this isn't going to work out" remain unsaid, but hang in the air like a silent harbinger of doom. There’s a wild look in his eyes, the look that he had in the courtroom before his breakdown, and she can’t help but be slightly afraid of what it means. But this is still Frank. Someone that she knows, that she thinks she may be falling in love with, even though she’s never said the words out loud before. Someone who has saved her time and again, someone who has never let her down before, not once. Someone she thinks might truly love her back.

“It’s okay,” she says, trying to sound calm. She reaches out for him, sliding his soapy hands into her dry ones. She presses herself against him, feeling the heave of his chest as he breathes. “It’s okay, Frank. I won’t ask anymore, I promise. I’m sorry.”

He leans down, his nose grazing the top of her head.

“You know, if I wanted to date Matt, I would have stayed with him,” she adds. “But I chose you for a reason.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want the white picket fence, and the 2.5 whatever kids? You know, I just keep wondering if this is fair to you, or if I’m robbing you of something that isn’t mine to take.”

She tilts her face up towards him, her blue eyes bright. “There’s nothing you could ever take from me that I wouldn’t be willing to give.”

His lips brush against her forehead. “And you don’t think that statement is problematic? You need to protect yourself, Karen, even from me. Promise me that you’ll do that, or I’m going to walk out that door right now, and I won't be coming back." 

In her mind, she can hear Rosalind’s words about playing second fiddle echoing back to her. Does she really sacrifice too much of herself to the people around her? She doesn't think so, but maybe she's wrong about that.

“I promise,” she tells him, their lips meeting in a soft kiss.

He takes her to bed after that, picking her up and carrying her dramatically into the bedroom. She checks his body over for more burn marks or injuries, but she only finds the one on his arm again. Afterwards, she traces the outline of the mark and listens to the sound of his breathing slowing down as he falls asleep curled around her. In spite of herself, she finds herself wondering if she really is living up to her true potential.

She didn’t choose to leave her job at the Bulletin, not really. She was forced out by Ellison. So much of her life has felt like that, as if her life is something that’s happening to her and she’s just reacting rather than truly deciding what she wants to do. She wonders what Frank will decide to do now, who he’ll decide to become. Will he work with Madani and the government? Or will he go rogue again and become the Punisher? What can she really live with, anyway? What is she willing to accept?

She knows that he isn’t Matt, and that he never will be. But she was also being truthful when she told him that if she had wanted him in her life as her boyfriend, then she would have continued to pursue a real relationship with him, in spite of his duplicity about his secret identity. But there’s just something so strong and magnetic between her and Frank, some undeniable spark between them that just doesn’t exist between her and Matt. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to give up on it, or give up on someone as honest and loving as Frank just because the rest of the world doesn’t understand him.

As she falls asleep, a dim final thought comes into her brain that at least now she knows that she isn’t alone in her concern for Frank. She already knew about his other friend Curtis, a former military man himself, who works with him in his veteran’s therapy group. But there’s also one other person out there who wants to drag Frank out of his shell, and try to get him back to some sort of normalcy. And that person is David Lieberman. David Lieberman who also happens to live in New York City, and who she could probably quite easily find a phone number for online…

With that last thought firmly in her mind, she falls into an untroubled and dreamless sleep.


	4. The Kings of Codependency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy is haunted by his conversation with Rosalind, and he represents a client in court that will be critical to uncovering the mysterious figure pursuing Daredevil.

Even in his dreams, Rosalind won't let Foggy get any rest. Her voice cuts through him like a knife, each word sharp and clear like glittering crystal.

“You know very well that your partner is more talented than this little firm that you’re running, Franklin. In addition, his legal skills far surpass your own mediocre abilities." She gestures at the office, encompassing everything around them with one wave of her hand. "All you and this tiny little joke of an office are doing is holding him back from realizing his true potential. And sure, it might just be laughs and jokes now. A quaint little place for a quaint little partnership. My, isn’t that cute? Why don't you just crown yourselves the kings of codependency and get it over with?"

She gives a wicked smile, the red of her lipstick just a smear in his mind's eye. "But do you know what happens next? As time passes you both by and the days turn into years, he will come to resent you for it. For holding him here when he could have grown into so much more without you. He will wind up a bitter, old man, utterly used up and spat out, and with very little to show for it. And do you know who he’s going to blame? You, Franklin. As a consequence, he will wind up hating you for the rest of his natural life. But you know very well that he will stay with you out of a sense of misguided duty and obligation." She pauses, as if for dramatic effect. "But I'm giving you the chance to spare yourself all of that agony. I'm throwing you a life raft, and I hope to God that you take it. If not for your own sake, then do it for him.”

Rosalind is coming closer and closer to him, looming large in his perspective. And Foggy himself is shrinking, shrinking, shrinking… until he’s left looking up at her like she’s some sort giant. He waves his arms wildly, trying to fend her off, only to realize how short and stubby they are. And what is he wearing? Some sort of shirt with a duck pattern on it, and a bib….? She draws back from him, that cruel smile still pasted onto her lips. The carpet below him is a disgusting shade of brown, thick and spongy, and her heels sinks into it a bit as she walks away. She heads around the couch, a truly hideous orange and brown plaid, her body back lit against wallpaper plastered with a diamond pattern involving pineapples....

Suddenly it all clicks as he watches her toss her purse over her shoulder, one hand already poised on the door handle. This is his childhood home, and there he is, reliable like clockwork: his father. And even though Edward Nelson might be thirty years younger at this point, he's already balding, and there are lines etched onto his face. He grips her arm, pitifully arguing with her to stay. But she shakes him off easily, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she does so. Because he’s destined to lose this argument, and he watches her walk out with slumped shoulders that foreshadow a lifetime full of loss and defeat.

The last that Foggy sees of his mother is the back of her perfectly tailored coat, disappearing into a black Saab waiting on the street. He toddles over and drags himself up to the level of the window, watching as a dark figure drives her away. He topples over, not quite able to stand steadily on his own yet, falling flat on his face on the hard wood floor. He cries out, but his father is too busy crying himself to notice Foggy laying there. He disappears into the kitchen, leaving Foggy behind, crawling after him, desperate…

_Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me too…_

\---

He jolts upright in bed, his heart pounding and sweat soaking through his shirt. Next to him, Matt shifts and wakes up, his eyes blinking open and shut again in the dark.

“W’us goin’ on?” he asks, clearly confused. He yawns, his mouth opening wide and his tongue peeking out.

“Nothing,” Foggy replies, pushing some hair that’s become plastered onto his forehead backwards. “Nothing, go back to sleep. I just need to go to the kitchen for a second for some water.”

There’s a frown on Matt’s face as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but exhaustion clearly wins out over concern, and he flops back onto the bed, his breathing quickly evening out as he falls into a deep sleep. Foggy tosses the covers back from his side of the bed, sliding out from beneath them and tip toeing out to the kitchen. He watches Ella warily, but although her head pops up briefly, she rapidly flops right back down again.

 _Like father, like daughter,_ he thinks to himself, shutting the door to the bedroom behind himself as he makes his way to the kitchen. He nearly bumps right into the couch, in spite of the bright light coming into the apartment from that god awful billboard sign. He’s grateful that Matt at least had the bedroom windows blacked out. God only knows how Ella would sleep if they had to deal with that neon light while trying to sleep. He flips a lamp on, illuminating the living room a tiny bit more, just enough so that he can see his way to the sink.

He looks longingly towards the cabinet where they keep the whiskey, but he forces himself to get a glass of water instead, filling it with ice cubes so that it’s freezing cold when he finally drinks it. He takes a paper towel and puts some cold water on that as well, pressing it against his overheated face.

Logically he knows that his nightmare wasn’t real. After all he was barely one when Rosalind left him and his father behind, so there’s no way that he could possibly remember it that clearly.

_But her words…_

_"He will wind up hating you for the rest of his natural life. But you know very well that he will stay with you out of a sense of misguided duty and obligation."_

_It’s not true,_ he tells himself. _None of that is true, and none of it will come true in the future. I shouldn’t let her get to me, and I shouldn’t be afraid…_

But a shiver is running down his spine all the same, and he can’t help but shudder and wonder if it’s possible. Could Matt really grow to hate him over time? What would he even be doing right now if he and Foggy had never met? A million unanswerable questions race through his feverish mind: What if Foggy hadn’t gone into law? What if he had worked in the family shop like Anna wanted? Would Matt have gone on to work at Landman and Zack? Or would he have failed out of school during the whole Elektra debacle if Foggy wasn’t there to cover for him? Around and around the questions go, until they swim dizzily in his brain.

He wants to turn the tv on to try to distract himself, but he knows that the sound will likely wake Matt up, and then he’ll have a lot of questions to answer. So he takes a seat on the couch instead, staring down at his glass of water forlornly.

He’s still sitting there when the sun slowly rises, the apartment gradually revealing itself in shades of gray as the light fills it up again. Rosalind’s words are on constant replay in his mind, slowly infecting him like a virus. When he hears Matt stirring, he turns on the coffee pot, pretending like he just walked out to the kitchen moments before. He even puts on a show of yawning and rubbing at his eyes, letting Matt kiss him and drag him into the shower as if everything is alright. As if everything is still normal.

But the world has tilted slightly off its axis now, and he feels a sense of unease plaguing his every move. Even tying his tie and getting dressed feels strange, like he’s landed on an alien planet and is trying to figure out how to navigate it for the first time.

\---

His senses sharpen slightly in the courtroom as he argues against a corporation that’s trying to raise the rent on a performing arts building, a move which would effectively shutter the Marlowe's Ghost Theatre Company for good. The building itself lies in what used to be a very bad part of town, the sort of neighborhood that most law abiding residents avoided because of the high crime rates and the prostitutes that proliferated the street corners. But the area is now being gentrified, and the value of local properties is rising commensurately. Which unfortunately means that rent controlled spaces with long existing lease contracts are being sold to large corporations, who are using any means necessary to force out the old tenants, replacing the crumbling old buildings with upscale yogurt shops, yuppie cycling studios, and shiny new apartments that gleam in the sun, where they triple the rent in the name of "progress."

“Your Honor,” Foggy explains, “what has been brought before you today is clearly a frivolous suit. The contract with the Marlowe's Ghost Theatre Company far predates the acquisition of the physical structure by Mueler-Lane Co, and the agreements laid down in that contract are ironclad and unchangeable for the term of their tenancy.” He gestures back towards where his client is sitting. Angelica Hurston is representing the communal interests of the theater company as a whole partially because the lease is in her name, and also because she's worked with the company for more than forty years, ever since she was a young woman and first signed on with the group in the late 70's.

Her gray and white curls are pinned up elegantly, and she’s wearing a conservative steel colored suit, a far cry from the weathered peasant blouse and torn jeans she had worn to her first meeting at the office. The rest of the theater company observes them from the galley, watching on tenterhooks as the case is presented. He understands why they're nervous, and he knows that many of them will be out of a job if this case goes sour. He clears his throat, and continues with his opening argument, hoping desperately that the judge will see reason and decide in their favor.

“Furthermore, I would like to state for the record that the owners of Mueler-Lane Co were well aware of the restrictions of the lease agreement when they purchased the building from the previous landlord. However, instead of trying to negotiate new terms peaceably and coming to a mutually beneficial arrangement, they have instead engaged in repeated acts of harassment against the aforementioned theater company. These acts have been well documented by my clients, and are also the subject of any number of police reports which we have provided for the court.”

The bailiff walks forward, providing the papers for Judge Watson, who takes out his reading glasses and scans them over rapidly as Foggy continues to talk. “These acts were clearly meant to intimidate my clients and force them into dissolving their lease contract out of fear. Mueler-Lane Co, far from being a legitimate enterprise, is acting in a fraudulent manner. For this very reason, my clients have every intention of filing a counter suit against them via the Non-Residential Tenant Harassment Law, which clearly outlines the illegality of these actions and the penalties for such activity in New York City. I urge you when reviewing this case to consider not only the contract, which clearly favors my client, but also the activities of Mueler-Lane Co, which have caused a serious disruption to the lively intake of profit to this theater company, and which have furthermore caused their staff and clients severe emotional distress.”

After his opening argument concludes several witnesses are called, and the judge eventually recuses himself to survey the evidence. There’s a one hour break, during which time Foggy has lunch with the theater company, leading to a rousing rendition of La Vie Boheme on the courthouse steps that draws a few curious onlookers, who are quickly presented with fliers for upcoming productions.

In the end the case is decided in their favor, and the entire theater company seems to breath a collective sigh of relief, even going so far as to extend an invitation to Foggy to go out on a bar crawl afterwards. He turns them down, thinking eagerly of heading home early, picking Ella up from his mother’s, making a nice dinner, and then smashing his face into his pillows and trying to catch up on all the sleep that he missed out on the night before.

He pauses when he sees that Angelica is waiting for him however, and he quickly remembers that their case isn't quite over yet. “Do you still want to file that counterclaim next week?” he asks her.

She shakes her head back and forth, her amethyst earrings winking as they catch the light. “I wish that we didn't have to, but I’m not sure that we have much choice, Mr. Nelson. Do you think they’re really going to back off if we don’t?”

He wants to say yes. He wants to believe that this issue is over with now that the court case has been decided, and that Mueler-Lane will stick to the terms of their lease agreement in the future. But after so many years of fighting these types of battles, and brushing up against these types of large, soulless corporations, he knows that might not be realistic. “From a legal standpoint, I would recommend that you at least file to let them know that you mean business.”

“Safest way to cover our asses, huh?” she asks with a smirk.

“Sadly, yes. If you give Karen a call, she can set up a meeting for later this week to talk it over before we really go through with it. That might help set your mind at ease.”

Angelica smiles, reaching out to lightly touch his arm in a motherly fashion. “I really can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done here today, Mr. Nelson,” she tells him. “And I can’t tell you how much winning this case means to us, and to the theater company as a whole. My husband Horatio couldn’t be here today, but he wanted for me to give you this, regardless of the outcome.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope. He opens it to find several tickets to a new show. The title card says simply “Echo” in simple black lettering, superimposed over a white hand print over a dark background.

“You simply have to see our latest production, Mr. Nelson. We have a new performer with us who is absolutely amazing to see in action. She’s a true prodigy, and she’s already world famous for her musical performances. Her newest work involves Native American legends that are interwoven with her own personal stories, all told through the expression of music and shadows created from the movements of her body. It's raw and powerful, like nothing you've ever seen before - I guarantee it!”

Foggy isn’t sure what to say, he just keeps nodding along as she talks.

“The critics who’ve come to see it are raving about it, and it’s drawing so much fresh business to us that it’s been sold out for weeks. It would mean the world to us if you would join us on Saturday and share the experience with us, and let us know what you think afterwards. We even threw in some free drink tickets, just for fun.” She winks saucily at him, and he stammers out his assurance that he’ll try to be there. He really isn't one for indie performance art, or for theater in general really. But he also isn’t sure how to turn her down politely, so he just takes the envelope from her, figuring that if worst comes to worst, he can always just cancel. 

\---

He walks out of the courthouse grateful to be headed back home while the sun is still out for once. The snow that's been plaguing the city seems to have taken a break today, and the temperature is relatively moderate. He thinks about an early spring with eagerness as he rides the subway to Nelson’s Meats, the familiar chime of the bell up above the front door ringing out when he walks inside. 

“Welcome to Nelson's.... ah, Franklin, it's just you! Thought you might be a customer... didn't you say that you were going to be late today? What'd you do to get our early, bribe the judge?” Edward chortles at his own bad joke, coming around from behind the register to slap Foggy on the back. He isn't really sure if his father knows about Rosalind and her sudden interest in Nelson, Murdock, and Page, and he isn't sure if it's even something that he should bring up at all. His father was so damaged when she left them that he rarely speaks of her, and when he does he doesn't even refer to her by her given name. He grew up with his mother's only name being "that woman," and it certainly hasn't engendered an open line of communication on the topic. 

“Eh, Foggy! Good to see you!” Theo waves at him from the edge of the stock room door before disappearing into the back again.

“The judge saw some sense and decided in our favor without too much deliberation,” Foggy tells both of them, speaking loudly enough that Theo can hear him in the back.

“Thanks to your fancy lawyering I’m sure,” Theo says, returning to the front carrying a heavy box which he heaves onto the counter top. He starts pulling jars of pickles from it, sliding them down beneath the counter. They're probably meant to accompany sandwiches, but there are so many of them it seems like they're stocking up for the apocalypse.

“Where’s mom at?” he asks, figuring he probably already knows the answer.

His father waves a hand around vaguely, “Ah, you know Anna. Upstairs and fiddling around with her crafting supplies. You’re going to have a whole apartment full of knit baby hats pretty soon.”

“Maybe we can start a store online, and make a fortune,” Foggy suggests, shrugging and pushing his way past Theo. He takes the back staircase, and sure enough, he can hear Anna singing along with the television. There’s some sort of Disney movie on with a young woman fighting a gigantic crab with a ton of gold glued to his back. The crab himself is singing a song about being 'shiny.' It seems ominous to Foggy, but Ella seems to be enchanted by it, squealing excitedly from her seat in a bouncy chair.

“Look who’s awake and happy,” Foggy laughs as she waves her tiny arms at him. He picks her up, breathing in the scent of baby powder and the special detergent that they have to use on her clothes.

“She wasn’t so happy earlier,” Anna warns, clacking away with her knitting needles. She’s working on what looks like a pink and yellow starfish outfit. “Crying all day, missing her daddies.”

“She’s not really mine, mom. You know that, right? She belongs to Matt.”

She shoots him a skeptical look as if to say, _Sure whatever you say._ “You’re here a bit early today.”

“Just got a sensible judge in court, that's all,” he replies, bouncing Ella and looking back towards the television, where the girl is now prevailing over the crab and releasing some sort of bulky warrior man from an underwater prison.

“I heard that Rosalind paid a visit to your office yesterday.”

Anna’s tone is deceptively casual, and she keeps her eyes on her work rather than on Foggy.

“And who told you that?”

“Who do you think, Franklin?”

_Damn it Matt, what were you thinking? You're usually so secretive, too. Of course when you do choose to be honest, you usually pick the least convenient time for it..._

“Yeah, I saw her.” He looks away from Anna again, trying to pretend that he’s interested in what’s going on in the movie.

“And what did she want?” Anna asks, still clacking away. 

“She didn’t tell you on the phone?” He doesn't mean for it to come out harsh, but unfortunately it does. He sighs when he finally looks over and sees the frown on Anna’s face. “She wants to merge our law firms for some reason, and she said that she would make us partners. Probably junior partners, but still. She tried to tell me that it would be good for Matt, that if he doesn't grow in his career that he's going to resent me for holding him back. That she has access to resources that we can only dream of, and that I would be a fool to not accept her offer."

“And what do you think?”

He groans, feeling like he's a teenager again and she's taking him to task for smoking weed at a party. He sinks down into Edward’s Lazy Boy armchair, the well worn leather enveloping him as soon as he sits on it. “I don’t know what to think, honestly. I mean, she isn’t interested in me for years and years, and now suddenly she wants us to work with her? It doesn’t make sense, regardless of what she says about Matt.”

Finally the movements of Anna’s hands slow, and she sets the starfish suit aside. “Well, I would definitely advise you to be cautious,” she says. “I never wanted to poison you against your own mother, so I never really said too much to you about her when you were growing up. I’m not sure if that was a mistake, really. I think that eventually you just assumed that you couldn't talk to me about her. But you have to know that I will love and support you no matter what you decide to do with your future. And even if it hasn’t always been obvious, I just want to tell you know that I'm so very proud of you, and the man that you've become.”

“Thanks, mom.” He looks down at Ella, because focusing on her happy smile is easier than watching the tears that are tracking their way down Anna’s face.

“You know that I’ve always thought of you as my own child, right?” she asks him, wiping at her face. “And I will always be a mother to you. Whatever you need, just ask.”

She stands up and walks over to give him a hug, awkwardly leaning down to do so. She gives Ella a kiss on her forehead as well. “Just do us all a favor and be careful, okay?” she says.

“Be careful of what?” Edward’s voice is as gravelly as ever, and it startles Foggy to realize that his father has been lurking in the corner of the stairwell. He wonders how long he’s been there, and what all he overheard.

“Be careful with the baby, of course,” Anna says, the lie coming out smoothly. Apparently her offer to talk to him about Rosalind doesn't extend to his father. “I don’t think she’s quite over that fever that she picked up last week. And she’s such a small thing, too…”

Edward’s face is creased and doubtful, as if he knows that Anna isn't telling him the full truth. But he doesn’t pursue it any further, and before long, Foggy has gathered up the diaper bag and put Ella in her carrier. Then he’s out the door and headed back home with a lot more on his mind than just his dinner plans.

\---

The tantalizing smell of ribs cooking in the oven greets Matt at the door when he comes home from work. Foggy watches as he pauses, tilting his head and sniffing. “Ribs, huh?” he asks. “Wedge potatoes… vegetables…”

“Stop showing off,” Foggy grumbles, leaning into him for a kiss.

“How’d your day go?” Matt asks, his lips moving against Foggy’s cheek as he pulls back.

He lets go of the other man reluctantly, peeking down into the oven to make sure that nothing is burning. “Well, ostensibly I won the case against Mueler-Lane, but the theater company still wants to file that counterclaim.”

Matt slides his suit jacket off, doubling it over neatly before laying it over the back of the couch. “They probably should, if only for their own protection.” He walks over to the play area they’ve marked off for Ella, complete with blankets and a little gate the whole way around so that she can’t just crawl off. He smiles down at her, reaching down to turn on her Baby Einstein musical device. Mozart emerges from it, and Ella kicks her feet happily, watching the lights play across the front of it as Matt sets it back down next to her.

“How’d you make out?” Foggy asks. He thinks the ribs are done, so he takes them out of the oven, setting them next to the tray of potatoes that are already resting there. He turns the burner off on the stove, figuring that the veggies are probably also as done as they're going to get.

“Pretty boring, actually. I had a bunch of cancellations, but I’m not sure why.”

Foggy’s stomach lurches sickly. _I think I might know a reason  why, and her name starts with R._ “I think dinner is ready.”

“It definitely smells like it is.” Matt puts his arm around him when he gets to the kitchen, pulling him into a sideways hug. “You realize that I’m not stupid, right? I know that you didn’t really get any sleep last night.”

He rests his head on Matt’s shoulder. “Having super senses is an unfair advantage in an intimate relationship,” he grumbles.

“You know you can talk to me if something is on your mind.”

“I’m fine, Matt. It was just a nightmare, that’s all.”

“Hm…” Matt’s nose is tracing the side of his face and his neck, and it’s utterly distracting and seductive, which might be part of a plan to lure him into talking. “Did it have anything to do with Ros…”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Foggy rushes to cut him off, detangling himself from Matt and pulling the envelope with the tickets from Angelica out of his suit jacket. “Angelica gave me these, they’re from the theater company I just represented in court today. It’s for a show this Saturday night. It sounds… uh, interesting.”

“You know that ethically speaking you shouldn’t have accepted them.” Matt is clearly not fooled by this rapid change in topic, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

“Yeah, I’m sure that the New York State bar association will be all over us,” he says, handing the ticket over to Matt, who runs his hand over the embossed cover, his frown deepening.

“Is this a hand print?” he asks, sounding troubled.

“Yeah, it’s a white hand print,” Foggy replies, “and the word ‘Echo’ in embossed in black lettering. Does that mean something to you?”

“Jessica said that the woman who was at the warehouse searching for Daredevil had a white hand print across her face.” Matt runs his hand over the invitation again, as if it’s going to reveal some sort of secret to him by touch alone.

“Maybe it’s just a coincidence?” he suggests hopefully.

A quirked eyebrow. “And when have we ever gotten that lucky?”

“So we’re taking a trip to the theater?”

“It could be dangerous, Foggy.” He sets the card down, tapping his fingers against the granite counter top as if he’s deep in thought.

“I suppose it’s not like anyone knows who you really are. So let’s just go, check it out. Have a date night like normal people.”

_Distract us both from this whole Rosalind situation._

Matt heaves a sigh, and Foggy knows that he’s won this round. “I’ll feel better if we can take Karen too. That way if anything happens…”

“We can all die together?” He gets a glare for that statement, and he hurries to add: “I guess another pair of eyes can’t hurt. And Angelica will probably be grateful if we use all three tickets, fill out the crowd you know?”

Matt’s stomach rumbles, interrupting their conversation.

Foggy just laughs. “Maybe we should eat before the food gets cold.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

As he brushes past him, Matt grabs him by his arm, pulling him in for another lingering kiss. “I meant what I said, Fog. You can always talk to me. About anything.”

“I know that. And I will…. I just don’t have anything to talk about right now.”

Another kiss, this time on his forehead. “Alright then. Just remember that I’m here for you whenever you do.”


	5. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy, Matt, and Karen go to the theater to see a very interesting piece of performance art, and Matt meet up with a young woman of incredible talents who is determined to tell him the truth about Wilson Fisk. Written from Matt's POV.

Saturday night finds them walking to the Marlowe's Ghost Theatre Company, dressed in what Matt's father might have referred to as their "Sunday best." The three of them take up nearly the entire sidewalk, but there isn't much foot traffic in this part of town, so they rarely have to move over to make room for other pedestrians. Matt thinks of suggesting that they all link arms as a joke, and dance down the sidewalk like they're in the Wizard of Oz, walking the Yellow Brick Road. 

He's surprised at how clearly he can picture it. But would that make Karen Dorothy? And who would he be - the tin man who's supposedly without any heart? Or maybe he would be the scarecrow, without any brains. He can't help but laugh to himself as he imagines Foggy as the cowardly lion, albeit a much more handsome version than the original one was. Perhaps Rosalind could even be the Wicked Witch...

“So what do we think the odds are that we get murdered tonight?” Karen asks, interrupting his train of thought. Matt can hear her stumble a tiny bit as her heel hits a large crack in the sidewalk. He reaches out an arm without thinking, and she brushes up against him, using his shoulder as leverage to right herself again.

“Come on, Karen, stop with all the negative talk. We aren’t even drunk yet!” Foggy says. There’s no trace of jealousy in his voice when he says it, not even when Karen links arms with Matt.

“Who says we’re getting drunk tonight?” Matt asks, using his walking stick to trace the path ahead of him, even though he doesn’t really need it. He’s going to use every prop he has tonight to appear to be nothing more than Matt Murdock, snarky-mannered attorney at law. If this unknown woman named Echo really is pursuing his alter-ego, then he definitely doesn’t want to give himself away by accident. At least not while Foggy and Karen are there to potentially get hurt by the fallout.

He still isn’t sure why this particular individual would be looking for him. Not that being Daredevil hasn’t provided him with a never ending stream of strange and weird enemies, but he can’t remember encountering any women matching the description that Jessica gave him from the video. A white hand print across her face, and expert martial arts skills? That’s a bit unusual, even for him. He also didn’t recognize her voice at all, which he definitely would have if he had ever met her before.

So all he’s left with is her basic description, and the fact that she’s somehow harboring a vendetta against Daredevil. It’s not much to go on at all, but maybe the theater performance will somehow be enlightening.

“Okay, can you explain how you got these tickets again?” Karen asks, still holding onto Matt's elbow, play acting as if she's guiding him down the street.

“From the Marlowe’s Ghost Theatre Company,” Foggy replies. “You remember Angelica Hurston, right?”

“Oh yeah, she was fighting that case against the corporation trying to illegally push them out of their building, right?” Underneath the sweet floral scent that’s purely Karen, Matt can detect a whiff of gunmetal cleaner. He wants to ask her how things are going with Frank, but he isn’t quite sure what her response will be. She’ll probably just think he’s just being overbearing or trying to interfere in her life, so he holds his tongue and doesn't bring it up.

“So I totally prevailed and won the case, and then she invited us to attend one of their performances. She claims that it’s been sold out for weeks, and that there’s some sort of positive critical response going on.”

Matt laughs, letting Karen lead him around a street lamp. “Are you sure that’s the lure, and not the free drinks part?” he asks.

He can sense Foggy’s shrug next to him. “When have I ever been able to resist crashing a party full of snooty intellectuals to scam some free stuff from them?”

 _The vivid memory of meeting Elektra at a similar party so many years ago assaults him, and it’s almost as if he can smell her musky perfume again, the chemical scent of her red lipstick clinging to the tequila on her lips…_ He shakes himself, trying to bring himself back to the present moment, leaving Karen staring at him curiously, trying to figure out what’s going on. “I think we’re here, actually,” he says to cover up for his momentary mental trip to the past.

There’s a bustling crowd in front of the theater, and he can't help but notice that there are quite a few people present for such a small production company, so the show must really be as popular as Angelica boasted. They’re quickly swept up in the swift stream of bodies pouring into the theater, Foggy and Karen pressing close around him as they enter. When they present their tickets to the doorman, he makes a hrming noise of recognition.

“Ah yes, Mr. Nelson, the hero of the hour! Angelica said you might come tonight. And I assume this must be the rest of Nelson, Murdock, and Page?” The man, of middling height and about thirty years old, is waving and calling over Angelica, and what must be her husband. Matt can recognize Angelica's scent from when he met her at the office, but he's never met her husband before. He smells strongly of tobacco smoke, and Matt can't help but gag at the overpowering scent. Why people want to fill their bodies with noxious chemicals is beyond him, and for some reason he finds tobacco particularly objectionable to his senses.

“The hero of the hour, hmm?” Karen whispers in Matt’s ear.

He smiles at her and murmurs back, “Let’s just hope it doesn’t go to his head.”

From his other side, Foggy crows, “Did you hear that, Matt? They called me a hero!”

His smile widens as Angelica and her husband, whose name is apparently Horatio (although Matt isn’t sure if that’s an affectation or not), both come over to greet them and play the role of gracious hosts. They welcome them with open arms, laughing and chatting as if they’re already old friends. They get them all drinks from their well-stocked bar, and show them to their seats, up front but off to the right hand side. Matt takes the seat on the end, Foggy in the middle, and Karen closest to the stage itself. He wants both of them to get a good view of what's going on in the performance, and he also figures that if Foggy has to whisper something to him, it’ll irritate the least amount of people if he's a bit further away from the action.

The production starts up soon after, and Matt can hear the crackle of electricity as the theater lights dim and the stage lights come up. The stage itself seems to be burning hot white with light, mysterious piano music drifting out to envelope the audience. It sounds eerie and haunting, like the kind of music you would hear in a horror movie. And yet there’s still some childlike quality to it that he can't quite put his finger on. Maybe in the way that it’s being played, every note deliberate and overly intentional. Or perhaps it’s in the arrangement of the music itself, and the way that the notes flow into each other, dancing around playfully.

Matt has always been a great lover of music, even before his accident, but somehow afterwards he developed a secondary sense of musical notes. It's almost like he can see them, like the notes themselves have colors and full form. Certain notes remind him of his father, hitting the punching bag in the gym over and over, others are sadder, lingering like grief. Some are even hypnotic, like red lips or the scent of perfume or a good cologne...

He can sense a female figure walking out onto the stage, and he can tell by the uptick in the heartbeats of the audience members and the way that some of them are now holding their breath that she has their immediate and full attention. Her pace is slow, her muscles bundled and taut, like a snake waiting to spring out of a coil. The tension in the air builds and builds, until finally she starts to move in an athletic dance, her feet thumping out a rhythm on the floor that sounds like a drum beat. Her hands move rapidly as she dances, conveying a message that Matt is unable to see.

He leans in close to Foggy, who whispers in his ear that she’s making shadow puppets on the wall. He sounds a bit breathless, and for someone who pretends to dislike intellectuals so much, Foggy definitely seems to have a weakness for live performances. Matt still remembers the first time he went to see the _Pirates of Penzance_ while they were in law school together, and how he wouldn’t stop singing the music for months afterwards, not even when Matt tried to bribe him with a bottle of whiskey. Unfortunately, the alcohol only made the singing worse, and he wound up having to take him to another production altogether so that he would at least introduce some variety into his musical repetitions.

The drumming of her feet continues, the rhythm picking up, the tune turning harsh and discordant. The audience is taking shallow breaths, and Foggy whispers that the images are of animals - rabbits and bunnies giving way to wolves and bears, chasing, chasing… swirling around to the movements of her hands… The dancing seems to go on forever, the beautiful music fusing with her movements, telling a story that is somehow both mythological and yet strangely personal. It isn't long before Matt feels himself falling into the lull of the production, each note turning into the embodied spirit of an animal in his mind's eye.

The figures cast onto the wall by her body seem to turn from innocent to deadly, starting up a wild chase scene that ends as suddenly as it started, the background music cutting out with an abrupt jerk that creates a silence that rings even louder than the music in his ears. She spreads her arms wide, thumping more with her feet. The noise of her drumming with her body is the only sound, the rhythm of her feet even louder for the lack of a musical background. The rhythm is slow but loud, reverberating through the floor. It sounds like something approaching, steadily increasing in pace and tempo.

She throws her arms wide, standing so close to the machine casting light that her shadow becomes gigantic, seeming to loom over all of them as a hulking, demonic figure… _Oh god…_ “Are those devil horns?” Matt whispers to Foggy. All he gets in response is a nod, and a gasped intake of breath.

He’s able to follow her more easily now, falling into the mesmerizing flow of her body, which breaks over his radar senses like a wave hitting rocks on the beach. The devil figure dances around, arms outflung, tumbling artfully to the ground. There’s a sudden outbreak of bells jangling, and Matt feels as if can almost feel the resonance of the sound vibrating through him. The bells jangle harsher, the sound speeding up, getting faster and faster and faster…

_Bang!_

She jumps up and lands on the stage, and he isn’t sure if it’s purely her body or if the stage has some sort of secret to it, but the sound is as loud and startling as a gunshot. She falls to the floor limply, not controlling her muscles, and her limbs splay out sickly… 

“I think she’s meant to be dead now,” Foggy’s voice is so low it’s almost the suggestion of sound more than a whisper. The stage lights cut out, leaving them in absolute darkness. Matt can hear gasps from the audience at the sudden darkness. He resists the urge to turn to Foggy and make a bad joke about how scary it is when you can't see. 

The woman on the stage is writhing, and he can sense that she's rising up, moving in a manner somewhat reminiscent of a zombie… He realizes that there’s music again too, starting off as a murmur of sound and growing, soft violins and drum beats that match her jerky, helter-skelter movements.

“The mark on her face is glowing white like it's luminescent. And it's definitely a hand print…”

She’s jerking around, dancing wildly on her feet now, swirling her arms and moving in circles that grow wider and wider. _Life, death, and rebirth, all in one act. No wonder this is so popular with the artistic crowd._

He hears the electricity crackling again as tiny pinpricks of lights appear on the background of the stage. He can tell by the frequency that it’s a white light, and he imagines it's meant to look like… “It’s stars, Matt! She looks like she’s dancing in the sky… her whole outfit is glowing too, I forgot to tell you that part…”

There’s a hum as the stage starts to warp, and she seems to rise and rise, straight up into the sky. The music reaches a crescendo, and up above, he can hear her clambering onto the scaffolding as the performance ends, the entire stage going pitch dark. The audience is on their feet before the house lights even come back on, cheering and yelling as if the performance itself has caused some sort of catharsis in them personally, just by virtue of seeing it.

Matt follows along with Foggy and Karen, clapping politely, his ears tracking the progress of the mysterious woman as she clambers down the side of the scaffolding and back out onto the stage. She’s bowing as the crowd cheers, her movements as slow and deliberate as they were during her performance.

“What does she look like?” Matt asks Foggy, who leans in close to him to answer back.

“Well, her face is somber and serious. She has long, black hair that’s perfectly straight, pulled up into a bun like a ballerina. She’s pretty built, too. Muscular and athletic, and she’s wearing this white wrap outfit that’s basically just a bra and a loin cloth.”

Matt listens to Foggy’s heart thudding in his chest, “So you’re saying that she’s beautiful.”

“I… uh…” his voice comes out as a stammer, making Matt laugh and press in close to his side.

“Glad to know that even if she kills me, I’ll at least have the honor of being murdered by someone attractive.”

Foggy seems to feel that requires some sort of reassurance, pulling him into a kiss by tugging on his tie. His heart is still racing, but Matt's unsure whether it's from the performance itself or if he's actually aroused.

“Such a stirring performance, wasn’t it?”

Angelica’s voice rings out from behind them, and he realizes that she must have come up on from the side row when he wasn't paying attention. The crowd is still clapping and cheering, even though the woman known as Echo has left the stage.

“It was incredible,” Karen says, and she sounds like she’s having an authentic response and not just bullshitting Angelica to try to get more information. “The things that she could do with her body, it was almost beyond belief… what was her name again?”

“Her performing name is simply ‘Echo,’ but her given name is Maya. Maya Lopez. Horatio and I were actually wondering if you would be interested in meeting her. She’s backstage, and she usually leaves directly after her performances, but we might be able to entice her into staying for a few minutes." 

“We would be delighted to meet her.” 

Matt isn’t going to let this opportunity disappear, gripping Foggy’s hand as they’re led backstage. The crew that runs the stage are there, clustered up in a group as they review that evening's performance, talking about lighting and musical effects and various improvements that they want to make. There are also more than a few regular theater performers who are drinking and carousing, lifting their glasses as Foggy passes by to salute him. They wind their way farther back to the dressing room area, the air heavy with the scent of body odor and stage makeup. Matt can feel his own heart rate accelerating as they approach the woman he isn’t quite sure whether he should call Echo or just Maya.

She smells of sweat and some sort of sweet body lotion. He can even smell the paint on her face, a bright chemical scent entirely at odds with the more human smell of her body.

“Miss Lopez!” Angelica calls, “Do you have a moment?”

She leads them over, and Matt does his level best to disappear behind Foggy and Karen, trying to blend in with the background so that he won't stand out in her memory. The woman turns, and Angelica repeats herself once she's facing them. Maya, he’s just going to call her Maya, he decides. She's nodding along as Angelica introduces all three of them.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Nelson, I’ve heard about you and the court case.” Maya shakes hands with Foggy, and Matt tries to use his senses to detect anything out of the ordinary about her. There really isn’t anything about her that stands out though. Her heart rate is pumping a bit faster than normal, but after all that physical exertion that isn't really surprising. 

“We’re all so grateful to you and your law firm for giving us all the opportunity to continue to perform,” she continues. “The running of this theater is a far more worthy cause than the cases that you normally take on.”

“I’m sorry?” Matt can’t help but cut in. “What do you mean by 'the cases you normally take on?'”

Angelica waves a hand in the air as if she’s trying to brush away the question. “Oh you know, politics, just politics…”

He frowns, and he senses Maya’s interest tilt towards him, along with her face. He's definitely caught her interest now, and he curses himself for being so stupid and letting himself be drawn in by a knee jerk emotional response. “This might not be the right time or place to discuss it, Mr. Murdock. But if you would want to get together with me for coffee or tea tomorrow afternoon, I would be delighted to go into more detail. Excuse me for stating the obvious, but you’re blind aren’t you?”

“Yes, I had an accident as a boy. There was a blind man crossing the street, and a truck almost hit him. I pushed him out of the way, but I was unlucky enough to be hit by radioactive waste. I never saw anything again after that.” His voice sounds distant and cold, as if he's describing something that happened to someone else.

Foggy’s grip on his arm tightens, and he can sense Maya's heart rate increasing as she asks another question. “So you haven’t always been blind, then? You weren’t born that way?”

He shakes his head, “No, I was already in grade school when it happened.”

“Do you miss it? Being able to see, that is?”

Foggy’s grip is so tight now that it feels like his nails are digging into his forearm even through his suit jacket. “What kind of question is that?” he demands.

Matt lays his opposite hand over Foggy’s, “It’s alright - ”

“Curiosity, mostly,” Maya interrupts him, seeming unperturbed by Foggy’s obvious anger.

“Miss Lopez is deaf, Mr. Nelson,” Angelica hurries to add. “I’m sure she didn't mean to offend any of you by her question.”

“Deaf?” Karen interjects. “So how do you…” she trails off, and Matt can tell that she’s looking over at him as if she suddenly feels like that question might be inappropriate.

But Maya seem untroubled, her heart rate steady and strong. “How do I perform without being able to hear the music, that is? I feel like I'm always being asked that question. The simple truth of it is that I can feel it in here.” She presses her hands against her chest, right over her heart, as if demonstrating. “That’s where the music lives. Although for years as a child they thought that I was developmentally delayed, my father still believed in me. He knew that I was a special child, and eventually the school discovered the same thing.”

Matt can feel Foggy’s grip relaxes as Angelica tacks on: “She’s an international prodigy, actually. A truly gifted performer of music and dance, and we’re so blessed to have her here with our humble little theater company." She sounds a bit overexcited, and almost like she's talking about a prize pet instead of a human being. 

“Your performance tonight truly was moving,” Karen says. “I was particularly drawn in by the, uh… the devil part. What inspired you to add that to your performance?”

“Miss Lopez’s performance truly speaks to the devil inside all of us.” Angelica’s reply cuts off Maya’s own words, and there’s something frantic in her response. “That inner devil that we all must acknowledge and tame if we’re to succeed at our endeavors in life. It was also inspired by her Native American heritage, and is meant to imitate the style of ceremonial dances like the Apache devil dancers.”

“So not the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, then?”

Matt hide his wince at Karen’s bald-faced question.

“I have to admit that these days, these costumed characters are foremost on all of our minds… However Miss Lopez’s devil is entirely metaphorical, I assure you.” 

Maya remains silent, but Matt can hear her heart rate pick up, thudding loud and clear in agitation. After that, it’s all banal chatter and then polite exchanges of good night. But Maya’s heart rate remains elevated, although she does agree to meet with Matt the following day to further discuss ‘politics.’ What she means by that he isn’t sure, but he knows now that he isn’t going to get any straight answers from her in front of Angelica.

\---

Matt picked a distinctly different coffee shop to meet Maya in than the one he picked for his meeting with Rosalind, and he’s glad that he did. This shop is tucked away in a little corner of Hell’s Kitchen, and few people even seem to know about it apart from college students and some other local residents. But after they represented the owner in a lawsuit that perfectly mimicked the McDonald’s Hot Coffee case from the mid-90s, Foggy became obsessed with it, and now he finds himself here at least once a week.

He probably should have brought Rosalind here too, but he figured that she would just scoff at the tatty yet comfortable couches and armchairs, the battered counter tops, and the old-school brewing machine that rattles whenever they need to make a latte. All of the things that he and Foggy love about it would likely be something she would turn her nose up at, even the fact that it’s attached to a second hand bookshop, piled high with dusty old tomes that give off the pleasing aroma of aging paper. There’s even the obligatory bookshop cat, bright orange and chubby, who lurks around and randomly jumps out at customers, demanding cuddles and playtime.

The whole place has a sedate atmosphere, which lends itself well to sitting and relaxing for hours. When Matt walks in, he can sense that Maya is already there. He can smell her distinct scent, minus the face paint, as she sits in one of the overstuffed chairs towards the back. He decides that for once he isn’t going to put on a front, and he makes his way towards her, easily navigating his way around the maze of furniture with the ease of long time familiarity.

She doesn’t question it, just stands up as he approaches. “Mr. Murdock,” she greets him, and he hears a smile in her voice. “I was actually afraid that you might not come.”

“Sorry I’m late, I had a brief issue with my daughter.” It’s not true, but Ella is the perfect excuse for all kinds of issues, including tardiness to meetings.

“Your daughter?”

He can tell that she’s regarding him curiously, head tilted to the side like a cat. It's almost like she can sense his deception, although he isn't sure how.

“Yeah, my daughter Ella. She’s about eight months old now.” He smiles back at her, feeling somehow comfortable with her even though he barely knows her. Could this laid back, artistic woman really be after Daredevil? He can’t figure out why, although he knows that the performance he saw last night probably should have given him more clues than it did. He was up all night, turning it over and over again in his mind, but he still can’t sort out the mystery that Maya presents.

“Is she your biological daughter?” she asks, and he can feel no malice in her question, only that same uninhibited curiosity that he saw on display last night. “Or is she your partner’s? His name is Nelson, isn’t it?”

“Foggy, yeah. And you can just call me Matt or Matthew if you want. Mr. Murdock makes me sound…”

She laughs, the sound clear like a bell. “Old?”

“Something like that.”

After loading up with coffee and an oversized everything cookie that Matt simply can’t resist, they settle back to talk. The bookshop cat decides to jump on Maya after they sit down, purring and pushing himself up against her.

Matt sinks back into the armchair, relaxing into the sleepy atmosphere. “So last night you mentioned that you didn’t really approve of all of our cases. But it seemed like Angelica didn’t want to let you talk about it.”

Maya is shaking her head, looking away from him momentarily as she pets the cat. He can tell that she needs to look at him when he talks so that she can make out the words, and he tries to make sure that he’s always facing her during their conversations. “She doesn’t approve of some of my viewpoints and beliefs. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think you’re going to approve of me much either if you hear what I have to say. But I feel obligated to tell you the truth, the real truth.”

He sips from his coffee, wondering what all of this could be about. “And what truth is that?”

“The truth about Wilson Fisk.”

His heart thuds erratically, and he feels as if the Daredevil connection is rapidly becoming apparent. “What about Fisk?”

“I have to go back a bit to fully explain. I was born deaf, as I told you last night. And the school really did think I was developmentally disabled, and they put me into a special school before they truly realized what I was capable of and what kind of abilities I had. But the one person who always believed in me was my father. He always answered all of my questions, no matter how strange they must have sounded to him. I wanted to know things like if the growing grass makes noise, and if a rainbow makes music when it appears in the sky, like it does when you hit the keys of a piano.”

Matt remembers tracing his father’s face, the outline of his nose, his cheeks, and his mouth. “I think I had a similar experience with my father,” he tells her honestly. “Sometimes it felt like he was the only one who really understood me.”

_And the only one who didn't patronize me and treat me like I was made of glass after the accident._

“My father’s name was Willie Lincoln, but most of his friends just called him Crazy Horse. It was a bastardization of his Native American name, which meant Dancing Horse. He was everything to me, and he taught me what it was to be a storyteller. He used to cast shadow puppets on the walls with his hands, passing on the legends that he heard from his own father as a boy. He said that he wanted me to remember them, that it was important to never forget where he… where _we_  came from.”

Her speech evokes strong memories in him of Jack singing Irish ballads in the kitchen late at night, especially when he was drunk. He used to tell Matt that his mother sang them to him as a child, and that someday he hoped Matt might remember enough of them that he would sing them to his own children. He’s never done it before, but maybe Ella would like them. He doesn’t have much of a singing voice himself, but the quality of the singing probably isn’t the point. It’s about the song itself, about family, and about heritage.

“He sounds like a good man,” he says when he realizes that she seems to be waiting for him to say something.

“He was,” she replies. “He really was. I lived with him until I was nine.”

There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. “And what happened then?”

“He was murdered.”

_The police sirens are everywhere, screaming from every corner of the world, deafening him as he kneels next to his father’s dead body. Blood is seeping into the knees of his jeans where it's spattered across the sidewalk. For weeks he’ll still feel that scent clinging to him, no matter how hard he scrubs himself in the bathtub at night. He traces the outline of his father’s face again, running his fingers across it for the last time. It's almost as familiar to him as his own: nose, cheeks, lips. But Jack is no longer warm and laughing now like he always was before, because he’s cold now, so, so cold and stiff, his skin rubbery like plastic…_

Maya’s voice comes to him as if from far away, “It happened a long time ago, but it wasn't until recently that I found out who murdered him. My father’s business partner was the only one brave enough to tell me the whole truth. He's a great man, he took me in when no one else would. And he provided for my every need, no matter how expensive or challenging it was at the time…”

The puzzles pieces are all slotting into place now with a sickening sense of clarity.

“You know that I'm talking about Mr. Fisk now, don't you? He’s a good man, Matthew, regardless of what false lies the media has put out there, and no matter what your firm said about him during the trial. They're just trying to sell more papers by dragging his name through the mud and telling sensationalized stories, and I'm surprised that a man like yourself would want to be a part of that. You know that most of the things that they wrote weren’t even true, don’t you? Anyway, he was the only one who was really there for me after my father died. That shouldn't be surprising, he's a man of serious convictions, always so dedicated to charity work and improving the city that he grew up in. He’s been my guiding light, and he’s shaped me into the woman that I am today. And he was the only one willing to tell me the truth: Daredevil killed my father. Everyone thinks he’s a hero, but I know what he really is. A murderer, and a cold-blooded killer.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just sits in silence for several minutes. For some reason what sticks out most to him isn’t Daredevil’s supposed complicity in the murder. No, what sticks out most is his feeling of pure commiseration with her sense of sadness and loss over the death of her father. It's rare to meet someone else who lost their parent at such a young age, and even rarer to meet someone else who lost their parent to violent crime. He can't help but feel a kinship between them, in spite of her ignorance about who and what Fisk really is. She truly seems to think that he's a good man, and he can't sense any deception in her words, just an honest fervor to share what she knows with him.

“I’m really sorry about what happened to your father, Maya.” He pauses, images flash forwarding in his brain. The smell of incense burning in the church at his father's funeral, the false assurances from strange adults that everything was going to be fine, because his father was with God now, and everything happens for a reason.  _It's all part of His plan, Matthew, you just have to trust Him._  And the worst lie of all: _Someday, this pain will be useful to you._  And then those first few nights sleeping in a cold, strange new bed, his senses on hyper alert to every foreign sound and smell. Waking up screaming from nightmares, only to realize that the nightmare was his life now.

“So you see why Angelica doesn’t want for me to admit what my performance piece is really about," Maya says. "Your friend knew right away that it’s about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and I hope that she's not the only one who comes to that realization. I'm putting the truth of him out there about who he really is without his mask to hide behind. But if I directly tell anyone about all of this, I know they’ll close up my show, and then no one will be allowed to see it. Better to let audiences draw their own conclusions. And eventually, maybe he’ll come.”

“He?” Matt thinks that he knows who she’s talking about, but he just wants to make sure.

And sure enough: “Yes,  _he._  Daredevil himself. I hope he hears about my performance, and that he comes to confront me about it.”

“And what would you say to him if he did?”

“I would make sure that he was never able to hurt another person ever again.”

His heart is thudding so loudly in his chest that he’s shocked that she can’t hear it. “And just how would you do that exactly? Are you planning on killing him?”

But the seriousness is dissolving, she’s leaning back and laughing as if he's caught her cheating at something stupid like Monopoly. Because she thinks she's just talking to Matt Murdock, and not the devil that lives inside of him. “Of course I would never admit to any criminal wrongdoing in front of a lawyer. Or any future wrongdoing, for that matter.”

He swallows, his coffee sitting on the table in front of him, utterly forgotten. “Of course not. I do have to say though, that I don’t think that vengeance is always the right path.” Maybe he can talk to her about this like two rational adults. Maybe he can reach her through his words, rather than his fists. “Can I tell you a story, Maya? About my own father?”

He can tell that she’s frowning at him, but she agrees and he presses onward, desperate to make her understand. Because she seems to be drowning in her need for vengeance, and that isn't any real way to live, as he knows from experience. 

“When I was growing up, I lived with my father. My mother left us when I was young, and she was never really part of the picture. Now my father and I were poor, so poor that sometimes we didn’t have lights because the power company cut them off when we couldn't pay the bill. And sometimes we ate macaroni and cheese out of the box for weeks at a time. But I never really felt unsafe or overly worried about our situation, and a lot of that was due to my father.” He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. “His name was Jack Murdock, and he was a boxer. I didn’t know it at the time, but the mob was manipulating him into losing fights, threatening to hurt me if he didn’t comply. They gave him a pay off, of course, but that didn’t matter to him as much as I did. They knew his weakness, and they exploited it. He threw fight after fight after fight. That is, until the night that he didn’t.”

He can remember it so clearly, listening to the fight on tv, the roar of the crowd, chanting his name: _Murdock, Murdock, Murdock!_

“He finally stood up for himself, and that fight is still talked about to this day. But he paid for his integrity with his life. They shot him in cold blood after nearly beating him to death in a back alley. I was there that night, actually. I was already blind, but I could…” he pauses, unsure of what he should say, how much he should reveal. He doesn’t want her to realize who he is, but it seems as if her own disability might hide something extraordinary, just like his own blindness does. “I could hear the police officers talking, the radio, you know, it was so loud. And I just followed those sounds right to him. I remember kneeling there, and I knew by the contours of his face as I ran my fingers across it that it was really him. That was the worst day of my life, Maya. And I could have chosen vengeance. I could have grown up and decided to murder the men responsible. But I chose to pursue the law instead, to put criminals behind bars through legal means rather than…”

“I was also with my father when he died,” Maya interrupts. “And I was with him after he was shot, only he wasn't dead yet. So I called 9-1-1, and I rode in the ambulance with him as the life slowly slipped from his body. That’s why I wear the white hand mark on my face, to mimic the bloody hand print he left on me that day. He branded me, Matthew. And unlike you, I know that the justice system is flawed. Look at what they did to Mr. Fisk. No, I can’t rely on them. I can only rely on myself.”

She’s standing up, and he stands with her, urging her to stay. But she’s clearly already made up her mind that the conversation is over. “I came here to tell you the truth about Mr. Fisk. I just wanted you to know that he’s not the man that the media claims, and he’s not the monster that your law firm made him out to be. I just want you to be aware, and to think deeply about who you’re hurting the next time you pursue a high profile case like his without doing your research first.” Her breathing ragged and harsh as she draws a deep breath. “And I also want you to know what kind of man Daredevil is. Angelica told me that your office is in Hell’s Kitchen, so you should know for your own protection. Because if you ever see him in person, my suggestion to you would be to run, and to get as far away from him as possible. That’s what I wish my father would have done. I’m very sorry for your loss, Matthew. But no allegorical story about the cost of vengeance is going to stop me from doing what I need to do.”

“Maya, wait - ”

But she’s already halfway to the door, and all he can do is stand there like an idiot as she walks out of the shop and into the street. He takes the cookie that he bought home to Foggy, leaving his coffee cup behind, completely untouched. Once he's safely ensconced in his own apartment he goes into his bedroom, sliding the door shut to separate himself from Foggy, who's watching tv with Ella. He presses his face against the door, mulling over what she said, turning her words over and over again in his mind.

It's clear that she's more than just a musical prodigy, although how much more it's difficult to say without directly confronting her and finding out. And he isn’t sure what he’s going to do, but he knows that he can’t just let Maya run rampant around New York, beating people up in the name of vengeance. A pursuit supposedly inspired by a crime he definitely did not commit. Maybe that’s it, though - maybe he just has to prove his innocence. How, he isn’t sure. But if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s defending people against false criminal charges.  
  
He just never imagined he would be using those skills to defend himself.


	6. Frank Castle Goes Bowling, An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank goes bowling with Karen, with some surprise guests along for the ride. At the end of the night, he comes to a realization that will change both of their lives forever. Frank's POV.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

The bowling alley reeks of stale beer and the distinct odor that only comes from hundreds of people renting the same shoes over and over again. He's grateful that at least they stopped letting people smoke in these places, so there’s no lingering stink from an endless loop of burning cigarettes like there used to be.

There are times when he feels like he grew up in a place just like this one, and he has distinct memories of laying on the shiny, slick floor, breathing in the smell of wax from underneath the seats as his father and his buddies bowled game after game. To be honest, they were also downing beer after beer while smoking pack after pack of cigarettes. They were serious bowlers, so serious that they brought their own shoes. They even had jackets embroidered with their team name: The Knockouts. Not super original to be sure, but that was their name, and they were damn proud of it.

They told their families that they came there to bowl, but they were mostly just interested in hanging out and having a good time together. And have a good time they definitely did, giving each other a congratulatory slap on the back when they got a strike or picked up a spare. They were actually some pretty good bowlers stone cold sober, but the longest running joke they had was that the more they drank the better they bowled. In fact, most of the guys on his father’s team left the bowling alley stumbling out to cars driven by their wives or girlfriends, but Frank’s father was pretty invested in his wife never discovering just how much alcohol he consumed every Saturday night. So he came up with a unique solution: he taught Frank how drive when he was just ten years old.

It was only a few blocks away, but it was still quite the experience to be behind the wheel as a child. By the time he was thirteen he was an old pro at it, expertly steering the car as his father cheered him on from the passenger seat. Before they got out, he always forced him to make the same promise: that his mother would never, ever find out. Frank sort of reveled in being entrusted with that kind of secret. It made him feel powerful and strong, like his father was trusting him with something very mysterious and grown up. To the best of his knowledge, his mother never did find out, and his father took that secret to his grave.

He'll never forget how confident he felt gripping that wheel. The first few times he was barely able to see over the dashboard, and his legs strained to reach the pedals even with the seat pushed all the way up. But he took his responsibility seriously, because he knew that every movement he made, no matter how slight, could mean the difference between life and death for both himself and the man he admired most in the world. In the entirety of his illicit driving career, he never crashed or was pulled over by a cop, which was nothing short of a miracle. Even if they had gotten pulled over though, it probably would have been one of his dad's buddies from work, and they would have only gotten a laugh as a response at how ridiculous it was that an honest officer of the law was letting his teenage son drive without a license.

Of course, Karen has zero clue that she’s taken him to a place that will trigger these kind of memories. She told him that she was driving them to a pizza shop with a lot of dark corners to lurk in. She also told him that they could order it to go if he got there and then decided that he didn't want to stick around. It turns out that what she told him was only partially untrue, because the pizza shop she was referring to is attached to the bowling alley by a swinging saloon style door.

“Come on,” she urges him, gripping his arm and leading him out into the main area, pulling him along behind her like some sort of naughty dog on a leash. The sound of bowling balls hitting the ground rolls across the alley like thunder, and the sound of striking pins rings in his ears like a Pavlovian trick that sets him mouth to watering for shitty pizza and cheap beer. The large crowd of people clustered inside does little to ease his anxiety, even though he has his ball cap pulled down low to cover his hair and shade his eyes. This place isn't exactly in a good neighborhood, and he isn't sure if they employ off-duty cops or not as security. An overly eager officer of the law could definitely put an end to their evening pretty tout fucking suite.

He gives a sigh of relief when he doesn't immediately see anyone near any of the entrances or exits who looks like a police officer, but they could definitely be doing rounds, so he decides to keep a sharp eye out for them - not that he doesn't already do that constantly. “What’s the hurry?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth, warily continuing to give the stink eye to each person who passes by. He wishes that he were more surprised by Karen’s duplicity. After all, she did promise him she would never even bring up the topic of a public date again. To think that she would trick him into coming out to a packed bowling alley on a Sunday night…

It’s pure insanity, that's what it is. But then again, that’s his girl. A ball of fiery courage, and an attitude to match. She looks up at him, throwing him a bright smile before tucking her hair behind her ear, expertly steering him towards…

“David? Sarah?!”

“Look who it is!”

David has clearly already imbibed more than a few drinks judging by the redness in his cheeks and the way he throws his hands up in the air when he sees them. He pulls Frank into a tight hug before he can even think to protest, burying his head in Frank’s neck for a second before pulling back. His skin feels vaguely sweaty and damp, and it immediately reminds him of that night they spent drinking together back when he was still trying to take out Rawlins.

Sarah seems more uncertain, hanging back a bit and giving them a shy smile as if she finds David's enthusiasm a bit embarrassing. “Sorry, we got here a little early, and David uh…” she mimes someone guzzling a drink behind his back, and David lets go of Frank to mock-frown at his wife.

“Hey, hey, hey, I am so….” he nearly trips over a chair as he makes his way back to over to their lane. “So sober.” He wraps his arms around Sarah, who just laughs when he leans in and tries to kiss her. She acts like she's waving fumes away from his mouth, blushing bright red as he presses another kiss to her nose before letting go. 

Frank feels as if he's being torn in two, and he really wishes that Karen hadn't brought him here. “I’m not gonna lie, it’s great to see you both…" He pauses, taking in Sarah and David's happy and flushed faces. He feels a pain starting up deep in his stomach, wanting so badly to stay, to just act normal. To ask how Leo and Zach are doing as if none of this is a big deal. But unfortunately for him, that isn't how his life works. "Really great to see you both..." he echoes himself. "But this isn’t a good idea.” 

Sarah nods, the expression on her face clearly uneasy. “That’s what I tried to tell this one. But you try changing his mind once he's get an idea in his head. It's impossible."

“Ah, come on, Pete,” David laughs, sliding into the use of his code name with cool ease. He picks up the pitcher of beer on their table, pouring it into a glass before holding it out to him. “Live a little.”

His wife heaves an exasperated sigh, massaging her temples as if she has a headache. Frank can’t say that he blames her, honestly. He doesn't take the beer from David, just stares at him long enough that it becomes awkward as the silence just stretches on and on.

“Look,” Karen interjects, “you’re already here. Let’s just bowl one game, okay?”

Her blue eyes are so bright that they’re nearly sparkling. He swallows, knowing that there’s no way that he could ever deny her anything when she makes that face at him.

Her smile widens, almost as if she knows what he’s thinking. “Just one game?”

He groans loudly, feeling all of his will power evaporating. He finally reaches out to David, taking the beer from him and drinking it down. He's relieved to find that it's still cold, making it the perfect refreshment in the face of the overheated bowling alley.

“One game,” he agrees, and David jumps up and hisses “yesss!” while pumping his fist in the air. 

It's clearly going to be a long night.  

\---

A few beers and an hour later, and Frank is having trouble remembering just why he said no to this in the first place. Something about him being a deadly vigilante on the run from the law? God, it all feels like a bad dream right now with his brain so pleasantly fuzzy from alcohol, and Karen rubbing herself up against his side, smelling so enticing, just like she always does…

David is clearly not a man who gets better at bowling when he’s drunk, and the ball he’s just thrown down the lane winds up straight in the gutter. It's the third one in a row, and he's obviously feeling frustrated. He yells out some sort of guttural, warbled cry of pure dismay and half falls to the floor, Sarah rolling her eyes at his ridiculous antics. He crawls off to the side, pulling himself up into his chair and slumping over.

It's his turn now so Frank stands up, shaking his arms and hands out like he’s limbering up or getting ready to run a marathon. David apparently finds this hysterical, cackling out a laugh. “Oh yeah,” he calls out to Frank, “you just go right ahead. Just crush my dreams and aspirations, crush 'em into dirt. Why wouldn't you? You're a maniac, you know that, right?”

Frank ignores his heckling, picking up the ball he carefully selected earlier in the night. The right weight, the right heft… it makes all the difference in the end. He can still hear David’s voice chattering away, but he’s in the zone now, zeroing in on his target. It's the same feeling that comes over him when he's staring down the barrel of a gun, finger poised over the trigger, releasing that last deep breath before the point of no return. He takes a step, arm swinging, the ball zooming down the lane towards the pins - and there it is, that perfect and pure crashing sound as the collision occurs, and all of the pins fall neatly to the ground.

A rush of adrenaline floods through him, the flush of victory overtaking him like a fever.

“Strike!” Karen yells out, jumping up.

“Why are you so good at everything!” On the face of it, David's words are a complaint, but the tone of his voice makes him sound like a proud parent. He turns back to Sarah as if she’s going to have an answer to his rhetorical question, “Why is he so good at everything?”

“Aw, honey, you’re good at things too,” she assures him as he throws himself into the chair next to her. She reaches over to rub him on the back a bit as he slumps over in mock defeat. “Just not this.” She laughs, her white teeth displayed in neat row as she smiles. “You are so, so bad at this that it's practically ridiculous.”

“I think I need more beer,” he says as he pours himself more from the pitcher. “More beer will fix this.”

“I’m not sure that’s your answer,” Frank tells him, watching as Karen picks up one of the bowling balls and lines herself up in the lane.

Her face is delightfully attractive when she’s concentrating, tiny frown lines appearing between her eyebrows. Sometimes a bit of her tongue even sticks out, and he likes that look best of all.

She winds up knocking down a respectable eight pins, but the two on either side of the lane are left sticking up like they’re taunting her. “Ugh, I’ll never get both of those,” she says, shaking her head and making her hair fall over her face like a curtain. "Why do I always wind up with a split somehow? It's like a bad metaphor for my life or something."

“You can get both of those,” Frank tells her. “Come on, I’ll give you some pointers.” He stands up from his chair, ignoring the dubious look that is plastered all over Karen's face.

David’s laugh from behind them comes out in a loud guffaw. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d love to give you some tips, Karen!”

Sarah elbows him, pushing the plate full of pizza that they just ordered towards him. Frank hears her ask him: “Why don’t you eat something?” and David replying back that he feels just fine, thank you very much, and he'd like to decide what he gets to eat tonight like a proper adult.

But it's all just background noise to Frank, all of his focus settling on Karen as he wraps his arms around her. “Alright then.” His mouth is next to her ear, brushing up against the top of it as he speaks. “The trick to this is your breathing.

“Breathing huh?” she asks him. “It’s really all that easy, huh?”

“Yup, easy in and out. Concentrate on the flick of your arm as you toss the ball." He moves her arms in imitation of the movement she should be making. She follows along easily, but he gets the feeling that she's just humoring him. Whether or not she's actually learning something or just appeasing him, he doesn't really care. He gets to touch her either way, and that's all he really cares about.

"You want it to hit hard, because you're trying to give it momentum and spin. Don’t be afraid to use force. When you get ready, I want you to breath in. And then when you toss it down that lane, I want you to breath out, but go slow. Release that breath like you're one of those zen Buddhist monks at the top of a mountain or something. And focus in on those pins, picture them in your mind's eye. See them falling as that ball curves so beautiful, taking them all out…”

She steps forward, and he releases her. She picks up her bowling ball from the rack next to them, and he watches as she breathes in... He can see her eyes zeroing in on the pins, narrowing ever so slightly. She has a focus like he does, and it's part of what he loves about her. In his mind, he often refers to the expression she's making right now as her ‘killer look,’ although Murdock’s head would probably pop off if he ever heard Frank refer to her like that. She pulls her arm back, stepping and then releasing the ball down the lane with force, just like he said, releasing her breath beautifully as she does so.

He can’t see David or Sarah, but he feels like all of them are holding their breath, watching as the ball speeds down the lane… it hits the first pin, arching towards the second and taking it out neatly. Karen screams, jumping up with joy, and launching herself into the air. Frank is yelling too, grabbing her and hoisting her up in his arms. They’re shrieking with laughter, and David runs at them too, piling on and gesturing at Sarah to join them.

She does so hesitantly, but David pulls her in, the four of them a perfect blob of happiness. They’re drawing far too much attention to themselves, but Frank somehow finds himself unable to care.

“Maybe you should teach _me_ how to do that, tiger,” David says, playfully bopping him on the shoulder.

“Where’d you learn all of that anyway?” Sarah asks. She lines up for her shot as they all settle back in the sitting area, Frank downing some beer, and Karen dancing a bit as she snarfs down some pizza.

“My dad,” he says, deciding to be honest. Karen looks over at him with wide eyes, half a slice of pizza comically stuffed into her mouth.

Sarah doesn’t get a strike, but she knows down about seven pins. The other three are clustered in the right hand corner, and should be relatively easy to pick up.

That's when David stands up, stretching out in a play act of casualness. “Alrighty then, my turn to be the coach!” he says, walking towards Sarah, who ineffectively tries to shoo him away.

Karen has swallowed down her pizza and she slides herself down in the seat next to Frank, reaching out to grasp his hand his arm as David continues to try to ‘coach’ Sarah, sidling up behind her and rubbing himself against her. “I feel like I should apologize. I didn’t realize that your dad was a bowler...  Is this... did I do the wrong thing, bringing you here?”

“It’s no big deal,” he tells her, shocked to find that the words ring true. “It’s uh… he’d probably be proud to see me carrying on the tradition.”

She leans in closer to him. “And teaching me?”

“He always did like a good looking blonde.”

The joke is a poor one, and she gives him a playful swipe as Sarah finally gets David to leave her alone. She sends the ball rolling down the lane, picking up the three extra pins in spite of her husband's distracting behavior.

Said man has his turn next, and he stalks up to the lane, standing there staring down at the pins. He kicks at the ground, picking up the bowling ball and cupping it like a pitcher on a baseball mound might.

The entire effect, coupled with the halo of curls around his face, all conspire to make him seem like a gigantic chicken. Sarah is laughing at him, hiding her face behind her hand when he looks back at them. “I’m gonna get a strike!” he yells out confidently. “Gonna get it!” He wiggles a bit, sticking out his butt so that they're all forced to look at it.

“You go David.” Frank bites into a slice of pizza. It tastes a bit like cardboard, but he didn’t really expect much from food served in a bowling alley. “Get some!”

“Woo!”

David straightens up, suddenly in perfect form as he steps, releases, and sends the ball whirling towards the pin with an amazing amount of force. Shockingly it slides straight down the lane, perfectly knocking down all of the pins with a loud crash. He does a little victory dance, spinning around and acting like Michael Jackson doing the Moon Walk.

Frank raises an eyebrow at him, casting a curious stare his way. Sometimes he really wonders if David is as ridiculous as he sometimes appears to be, or if it’s all really just an act. Because there are times like now where he really has to wonder. He casts a coy look at him as he passes by, ducking down to press a kiss against Sarah’s lips before retaking his seat.

It’s an utterly soft moment between man and wife, and Frank catches Karen looking over at him for a moment with a dreamy look in her eyes - that is, before she redirects her attention to her slice of pizza as if Frank didn't just catch her staring at the happily married couple. The starstruck look on her face causes his heart to thud uncertainly, and there’s a churning in in his stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol that he’s just consumed. Because as much he might want it, that can never be them. They’ll never be married like Sarah and David are, with two point whatever kids and a white picket fence.

A normal life is something that he can never have, part and parcel of everything that he willingly left behind when he first picked up his gun and assumed the auspicious mantle of a vigilante. And this date with Karen, this momentary, fleeting bit of happiness - it’s all just a lie.

It’s Frank’s turn again then, but his aim is a bit off, and he only manages to knock down nine pins. He picks up the last one as a spare, but it still feels like a defeat. He feels numb and distant after that, but it doesn’t seem like anyone notices. They carry on as they did before: laughing, joking, drinking, eating pizza, as if they don't have a care in the world. But to Frank, everything looks different now. The lighting is harsh, garish, the people in the bowling alley are raucous, cartoonish figures, whirling around and around and around...

There's a spinning carousel in his mind, forever spinning, and all he wants is for it to stop. But it never will, and it was all just a fantasy to imagine that things could have ended any differently for him. No, he knows how this all ends: him, covered in blood, facing down his enemies. And where will that leave Karen? Grieving, and alone, if not in prison or jail for somehow aiding and abetting a known criminal.

An hour and a half later, the bowling alley is shutting down, and they follow the crowd as everyone leaves, tucking their coats in tight around themselves as the winter chill hits them. David pulls on a hat with a pom pom on top, shivering as the snow falls around them, making them both promise they’ll do something else again soon. Sarah even pulls him in for a quick hug, whispering to him that Leo has been asking if he can come over for dinner sometime soon.

He says he’ll think about it, because that’s easier than just saying no outright. But he has no intention of ever doing this again. This, all of this, was a giant mistake. What did he think he was doing, meeting up like this and having fun as if he’s some sort of normal person who’s going to go on to live an apple pie life? He’s a killer, a cold blooded murderer, and it’s ridiculous to think that he could ever be something else.

The entire drive back to Karen’s place, he tries to rehearse in his mind what he’s going to say to her. He knows now that he has to end this before she gets more attached to him, before he makes it any worse, as he no doubt will.

He looks over at her, confidently turning the wheel and steering them towards home. He can't help but think of his father, wondering what he would think of him now if he was still alive. What would he think about the choices that he’s made and the man that he’s become? Would he be proud of him? Would he have stood up for him in court, told them all about his good character? Or would he have denounced him?

And his mother, oh his mother… The type of woman who couldn't even handle driving a drunk husband home from the bowling alley is definitely not a woman who could have ever embraced the type of monster that he's grown up to be.

But even though he’s made mistakes in the past, he can still correct them in the future. Starting with Karen, and ending this doomed relationship before he can steal any more precious seconds from her life. She’s looking over at him again, smiling at him like he’s the kind of man who’s worthy of her love and trust. But that’s not who he is at all, and if he’s a man of integrity, he’s going to have to end this now.

 _It’s all for her,_ he tells himself. _I have to do this, and I have to do it for her sake._

Later on, after the argument has ended and he's walking out of her door, leaving devastation in his wake just like he always does, he repeats it like a mantra:

_It’s all for her, it’s all for her._

It’s cold comfort in his empty bed that night, but he tries to hang onto it, because it feels like it’s all that he has left.


	7. Nelson v. Sharpe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Karen doesn't show up for work, Foggy investigates, and angst ensues. Also, Rosalind Sharpe finally reveals her true motivations and makes her move, firing off a chain reaction that might destroy the partnership of Nelson and Murdock forever. Foggy's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell y'all, sorry about the angst-fest! Next chapter is already written and will be added soon.

“Do you know where Karen is?”

Matt is standing in the doorway to his office, one hand resting casually on the doorknob. It should probably bother Foggy more than he hadn't even noticed Matt open it up and step inside, but to be honest, he's had a rather distracting morning. He's been running late since he rolled out of bed, and it seems like it's just going to be one of those days. He woke up at his usual time, but then it was just one thing after another: toothpaste that got where it wasn't supposed to, a cell phone he couldn't find, a shirt that got baby spit up on it ten seconds before he was about to leave for work. And based on the amount of cursing coming out of his mouth as he got ready, Matt seemed to be having a similarly troublesome morning.

But they still had the opportunity for one of them to be on time, so they had decided to split up, with Foggy offering to be the one to drop Ella off with his mother. Unfortunately this only led to more distractions when he got to the shop and became involved in Theo's never-ending problems with their shipping company. All of this together meant that he arrived at the office twenty minutes late, with his client already seated near his desk, glaring at him as he came in as if his tardiness was some sort of unforgivable sin. It was an awful way to begin his morning, and it doesn't seem as if things are about to turn around based on the look on Matt's face.

He leans back a bit in his chair to glance around Matt at Karen's empty chair. Between everything else, he hasn't really been paying much attention to what's going on in the outer office, but naturally he's right. It’s 10:35 am, and Karen Page has yet to show up at her workplace. It's startling because of the three of them, she's actually the most reliable. She typically gets the office going in the morning too, brewing coffee, greeting clients, making excuses for Matt's absences… it’s her routine, and she rarely misses it, unless she's sick. And even then, she still would have called or texted to let them know about it by now.

“Was she not here when you showed up?” Foggy asks, his mind immediately going to a dark place full of anxiety and worry. Matt just shakes his head, and internally Foggy curses himself for being so self-involved that he didn't even realize that she's missing. Somehow he had just assumed she was in another part of the office, or out running an errand...

“And have you tried calling?” 

“I tried calling her phone, I tried texting... honestly I’m not sure what the next step is, other than going to her apartment. But we have an office full of clients out there, and we were closed for a whole week last month… Foggy, what are you doing?”

He’s already pulling on his long brown coat, which he threw haphazardly over a chair in his office when he first arrived. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going over there.” He turns his back to Matt so that he doesn’t have to see the lines of frustration on his face as he winds a scarf around his neck. It's bracingly cold outside today, and any extra protection that he can get from the freezing wind is definitely welcome. “I mean, anything could have happened to her.”

“Or she could have just forgotten to set her alarm.”

He knows that Matt’s suggestion is perfectly reasonable, but he also knows Karen. She’s often up with the sun, which he realizes now that he knows more about her background is probably an ingrained habit from working early mornings at her mother’s diner. “Unlikely.”

A huffed sigh from behind him. “We run quite a firm, don’t we?”

“I’ll be there and back again in twenty minutes,” Foggy hurries to reassure him. “My next client isn’t scheduled until 11, so nobody will miss me." The other man still looks dubious, so he adds a hasty: "I’ll hustle, Matt. You know I can hustle, I've been known to huss.”

He tries to push past Matt, but is stopped when he puts an arm out, effectively blocking his exit. “I don’t like the thought of you going alone. It might not be safe.”

Foggy can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. “So you're admitting that you don't think her absence is down to a faulty alarm clock.”

“I don’t know what to think honestly. That’s why it’s so important to consider all of the angles before just rushing off and - ”

“You’re wasting time right now, and you know it. Just let me go, and I’ll be right back. I can even try and get coffee from that stand on the street corner that you like when I come back.”

There’s a dark glower on Matt’s face, and for a second Foggy wonders if he’s about to be locked in the supply cupboard so that he can't escape. But eventually he just releases the breath that he’s obviously been holding, dropping his arm from the doorway to run an absent-minded hand down the front of Foggy’s jacket. He takes a moment to straighten Foggy’s scarf, re-adjusting it so that it sits firmly around his shoulders and snuggles his ears.

“Be safe,” he says. “Call me the moment that anything happens.”

 _So interesting that you don't say 'if' something happens, Matty._ “I’ll be sure to send up the bat signal,” he replies, making it into a joke.

He can tell that Matt isn't amused by his poor attempt at humor. His face is pale, and his lips are a tight line where they press together unhappily. But he doesn't stop him, just stands still as a statue and waits for him to leave the office before going back to work.

\---

He intends to be back by 11, he really does. But when he knocks at Karen’s door and doesn’t get an answer, he feels a tight twist in his gut and knows that he’s about to disappoint Mrs. Coleridge as well as her husband, just like he disappointed his earlier client. He’s been texting her since he left the office, and he’s left three voicemail messages on top of that - all with no response. He types off a rapid fire text to Matt, just to reassure him that he’s safely at Karen’s place, without adding any details about the fact that she isn’t answering her door.

It seems crazy, and he knows that Matt would be furious with him if he knew what he was about to do. But Foggy is nothing if not determined, and he manages to find a low-enough fire escape to clamber onto. He uses a nearby garbage can to boost himself up onto a dumpster first, thankful that the top is at least closed so that he can walk across it. The stairs are rickety and coated with the slick of ice and snow once he gets up there, and they shake a bit beneath him as he makes his way up. Icy wind snakes it way beneath his scarf and coat, especially as he makes his way farther up. His hands are frozen and nearly stick to the rails at several points. He wishes that he had his gloves, but in all the haste to leave the apartment earlier, he forgot them, and now he's paying the price.

Above all: He distinctly forces himself to not look down.

After a bit of careful maneuvering, he finds himself level with what he thinks is her apartment, gazing through the glass window with trepidation. Steam is fogging up a tiny window farther down, as if the shower has been running, so someone has to be there. And who else would shower in her apartment but her? He takes a deep, steadying breath before he knocks resolutely on one of the windows. He gets no response, frustration rising up within him.

Should he just break the window? But then she would have to replace it, and it could be expensive. And what if one of the neighbors hears and calls the cops? And then what if there's really no emergency at all, and there's Foggy Nelson, Attorney at Law, looking like an idiot at the local police precinct, being charged with breaking and entering? And wouldn’t Mahoney just love to see him like that? He would have a field day, and Rosalind probably would too if she ever heard about it.

The windows are a bit grimy and warped from age, but he tries to see in anyway, cupping his hands around his eyes as if that’s going to do anything to improve the situation. He’s startled to realize that her couch is tipped over, and more startled to see broken glass on the floor. There are even books with their pages torn clean out of them scattered across the floor like haphazard flower petals… Okay, that’s it. He’s calling Matt first, and then he’s going to break this window, so help him God -

He gives a loud, high pitched scream when Karen’s face suddenly looms up directly in front of him on the other side of the glass, and he nearly falls off the fire escape as he instinctively jumps back. His heart is pounding a mile a minute, and it isn’t until she’s sliding the catch open and he’s clambering through it that he even takes in her appearance: Red rimmed, puffy eyes, a swollen, pink nose and cheeks, her hair wet yet rumpled, and she’s wearing an old gray sweatshirt and baggy pants.

He doesn’t say anything to her at first. He doesn’t know what the situation is, or what’s happened. All he knows is that she’s whole, and seems physically unhurt. So he pulls her into a tight hug, holding her against himself with a rush of relief so profound that it feels almost spiritual.

\---

A few minutes later they’re both in the kitchen, the tea kettle she put on the stove gradually heating up. They’re both standing there awkwardly, neither one of them saying anything. Foggy looks around her apartment again, taking in the destruction with a sense of bewilderment.

 _Who would do something like this?_   _Maybe this is why she’s so upset, maybe she came home to this last night, all of her things thrown around and ruined. But why wouldn’t she have called me or Matt if that were the case? Hell, why wouldn’t she have called Frank..._

Frank.

The fact that he isn't already here when Karen is obviously in a serious state of distress is answer enough, and the realization hits him like a bolt of lightning. Suddenly he feels like the world’s biggest idiot, and he sends a quick prayer to whatever deity might be listening that he’s mistaken. “Did someone… did someone do this to your apartment?”

She stares sadly down at the tea kettle. “Yes,” she says after a moment, and his heart leaps in a moment of sick optimism. How awful is it that he would rather this be some sort of weird villain or criminal trying to ruin their lives yet again rather than the end of Frank and Karen's relationship? They seemed so happy together, and now... 

She gives a self-deprecating, dark laugh, and his hopes sink back down again as she confirms what he’s already guessed. “Someone did, and that someone was me.”

“Why?” The words tumble out of his mouth even though he already knows the answer.

She’s biting her lip now, just like Matt does when he's troubled, and she doesn’t respond. Foggy reaches out a hand, settling it on her arm lightly as a test, trying to gauge whether or not she really wants him there. She doesn’t respond to his gesture, just keeps staring forward, her gaze vacant and her thoughts clearly elsewhere. He wants to call Matt, but he’s afraid that he’ll look callous if he whips out his phone and starts texting away. 

At that moment though, Karen’s phone starts chiming with an incoming call. It lights up on the counter top, and he can see a photo of Matt on it, looking ridiculous and seriously drunk, backlit by ten million fairy lights. He can't help but wonder if she took that photo when they were still dating, and question why she still uses it on her phone. But there are more pressing matters to think about right now, so he just picks up the call and tries to focus.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, wondering what exactly he should say. He holds it away from his face for a second to peek at the time. It's well past 11 now, and rapidly closing in on 11:20. 

“Why are you answering Karen’s phone, anyway?” Matt demands, his voice coming out harsh and demanding. “Is she there? Is she okay…” His words break off, and Foggy can hear him breathing rapidly as he rummages with something, probably his coat. “I’m coming over there.”

“No! No… we’re good.”

Foggy looks over at Karen. The tea kettle is steaming, and he imagines it’ll whistle anytime now. Maybe if he can just get some tea in her, get her more coherent, maybe then she’ll be okay. He isn’t sure why Frank would have broken it off with Karen (or conversely why she would have broken it off with him), but based on this, the break up scene itself must have been a dramatic one.

“You aren’t coming back to the office, are you?” Matt asks unnecessarily. 

He walks away from Karen, and she makes no move to stop him, even though he’s taken her phone. He shuts himself in the bathroom, putting the toilet seat down so that he can sit on it. “Unfortunately I think the answer is no. Can you talk to Mrs. Coleridge and her husband for me?”

“Yeah, they’re already in my office. I did some preliminary work, but I was getting nervous after I didn’t hear anything from you. Can you tell me what’s going on at least?”

Foggy runs a hand through his hair, wondering how they can keep running a law firm when their lives are so scattered. They can’t just keep closing the office, shuffling clients back and forth between them like ping pong balls. It’s totally unsustainable, and he knows it. But what is he going to do? Leave Karen when she’s like this? Give up on Matt altogether? 

It’s a no-win scenario, and it terrifies him. But he manages to force his fears back down like he always does, taking all of his anxiety and cramming it into the back of his brain, shoving it down until it's left swimming in his subconscious.

“I think Karen and Frank broke up.”

There, the direct approach. Simple and succinct.

Silence on the other end for a moment. “Matt, are you still there?”

“Is she... I mean, is she doing okay?”

He wonders why Matt paused in the middle of his question, and then realizes that he's asking about her physical state as much as her emotional health. “Jesus Christ, Matt, he didn’t... he didn’t do anything to her, if that’s what you’re asking. In fact, it seems like it might be Karen herself who’s gone off the deep end here...” he stops abruptly as he realizes he may have said too much.

“What’s going on, Foggy? You have to tell me what’s going on, or I’m going to..." More ragged breathing on the other end, and the sound of something that sounds alarmingly like a fist hitting the wall. "I should leave, I should just tell them that we have to close…”

“She tore her place up, Matt! I mean, it's a bit extreme, but you can’t leave work, okay? I’m going to take care of her, see that she gets some rest soon. If anything goes south, I’ll call right away. Just let me start sorting this out, you take care of work, and we’ll all get through this, step by step.”

He can still hear him breathing on the other end, but Matt doesn’t say anything. Foggy can imagine the ten million thoughts running rampant through his mind like tiny demons, and if he knows anything at all about his friend and lover, he knows that he's about to make this all his fault somehow. “There’s no way you could have prevented this,” he says.

“I could have told her not to date him, tried to scare him off...”

“Oh yeah, because that would have ended well."

“I can’t help but feel like I just let this happen, because I was too distracted with Ella and everything else going on in my life to really address it. I mean look at this Echo situation, I've done nothing about about that either, and it's all because of...”

Foggy can't help but interrupt at that point. “By 'everything else' do you mean us? Do you mean our relationship? That's what's distracting you from doing what you need to do?” Dead silence on the other end, and if that isn't a confirmation of some of his deepest fears... “Well, you should be getting back to Mrs. Coleridge and her husband….”

“Foggy…”

“I’m going to hang up now, Matt. Let me take care of this, okay?”

 _Just like I always do,_ a small, bitter voice within him taunts. Somehow his gaze has become fixed on the tile in Karen’s bathroom, his eyes sliding over the dizzying geometric patterns in a way that makes him feel sick.

“I’m coming over there the second there aren’t any clients here, okay? Let her know that I’ll be there.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

Matt hangs up without responding, and Foggy runs through a brief meditative exercise in his mind before going back out to the kitchen to rejoin Karen and the now-whistling tea kettle.

\---

He doesn’t press Karen too much about what’s happened when he gets back. He doesn't ask her any prying questions, or force her to bare her soul to him. He just goes through the motions of making tea with her, dropping a chamomile and lavender tea bag into her cup without asking her what flavor she wants. She takes it without protest, her only addition a bit of sugary honey. Her motions are jerky and erratic, like an automaton. She seems like she isn't really there, and most of her physical responses are sluggish. 

He rights the overturned couch without straining himself too much. It’s a light couch, and easy to move. She probably purchased it with both of those things in mind, considering how often one has to move in the city. He slides it back in front of the tv, which actually looks relatively unscathed amongst all of the other wreckage. Good to know that they still have some of their priorities straight.

He remembers how he felt when he thought Matt was dead, like he was under water and everything that was happening just felt so remote, almost like he was watching himself on television. It was like his life was happening to someone else, and he was just some distant observer. Not that this is comparable to an actual death, but still... looking at Karen's face, it does almost feel like it. “You wanna watch a show?” he suggests, and she just shrugs.

He takes that as an affirmative, and she settles back onto the couch as he figures out how her remote works. He puts on reality tv without thinking about it too much, and they wind up mindlessly watching _Project Runway_ for a few hours. Well, not really they, more like Foggy watches while Karen sleeps. Her eyes fall shut about thirty minutes into the first program, her tea half forgotten on the table in front of her, the blanket that Foggy wrapped around her enveloping her slim body. He thinks vaguely about texting Matt again, demanding to know if he’s just a distraction to him, or a burden. But he decides against it, cuddling under a blanket himself and sharing Karen’s warmth. He winds up spending a lot of his time looking over at her, worrying about the dark circles under her eyes and how exhausted she looks.

 _All three of us are idiots_ , he decides. _Burning the candle at both ends, and running ourselves into the ground._

And for what? They put away Fisk, but the likelihood that he’ll get out again is strong, no matter what kind of bs promise he made to Matt. And not for one second has Foggy ever imagined that when he does come roaring back to life that he won't be seeking some sort of vengeance and retribution against the three of them. And now there's Ella to consider. Foggy can’t help but wonder if Fisk already knows about her, if whispers have reached him through his web of contacts that a blind lawyer named Matt Murdock has an infant daughter now, and a man living with him to boot. So vulnerable, like fruit just ripe for the plucking...

His thoughts chase themselves around and around in his mind like a dog trying to catch its own tail, and eventually he falls asleep, waking only because he hears a knocking sound. The sound invades his dreams steadily, the steady thump, thump, thump sounding like footsteps coming closer and closer to him... chasing him down...

He wakes with a start, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s the door, and not Fisk thumping his way towards him, ready to crush him into oblivion. His heart thuds as he struggles to regain his bearings. The television is still on and glowing, but the sun has gone down, and with no lights on the apartment is now dark and feeling a bit cold. It's odd how a stranger's apartment can seem so foreign in the darkness, the shapes of the furniture vaguely threatening and unreal.

Karen still hasn't stirred, so he slips from beneath the warm covers, shivering when the air hits his skin, and answers the door. Matt is standing there, and amazingly he’s brought food with him, making him Foggy’s official favorite person ever - not that he wasn’t before that moment, but this just about clinches it.

“Pizza, huh?” he asks as he takes some of the boxes from Matt and carries them inside.

“And wings and breadsticks,” Matt tells him, following him into the dark apartment.

“The unholy trio,” Foggy says, just to say something. He nearly trips over a book that’s laying flat on the floor, and he flips on a light in the kitchen so that he can see what he’s doing.

Karen is still just a lump under the blankets, and without Matt's super senses, Foggy is left unsure if she’s still sleeping or just faking it. He watches as Matt tilts his head in her direction as if he’s wondering the same thing. “She seems exhausted,” Matt says finally. Foggy doesn’t ask how he knows, although he wonders if a broken heart sounds any different to Matt than a normal one. “Did she tell you anything?”

“Not really, mostly she just slept.”

“Hm…” he pops one of the pizza boxes open, and the delicious smell wafts out of it, making Foggy’s stomach rumble. On the couch, Karen finally stirs, popping her head up and blinking owlishly at the silhouette of Matt lit up against the backdrop of the bright kitchen lights. To her it probably seems like he just appeared in her kitchen suddenly, like a weird magic trick. Then again, knowing her relationship with Daredevil, maybe this is the kind of thing they used to do all the time. 

“Is that,” she yawns, her mouth opening comically wide, “is that pizza?”

“I got you some sausage,” Matt tells her. “Do you want me to bring some over to you?”

She rolls her eyes, seeming a bit more like herself after getting some rest. “I’m not an invalid you know,” she tells him, standing up and flicking on a light near the tv. She uses the remote to pause the tv, the sound of Tyra challenging a competitor to do better cutting off abruptly. She carefully navigates her way through the minefield her apartment has become, stepping over broken glass from a vase that previously held flowers, their white petals torn and scattered on the floor. 

“It’s a bit of a mess in here,” she says, and the comment seems directed primarily at Matt. “Make sure you don’t step on any glass.”

“That’s what shoes are for,” he replies, biting off a piece of pizza.

Foggy takes a slice as well, patterning his actions on what Matt is doing, since Karen seems to be responding fairly positively to him so far. She stares down at the sausage pizza as if she’s never seen anything like it before for a long moment before suddenly dashing off to the bathroom. The loud sound of throwing up is clear even to Foggy, who stops eating his pizza to look over at Matt.

“Okay, so maybe we won’t eat dinner,” is all he says, setting his pizza down and making a slow and careful route through her apartment back to the bathroom.

Foggy’s stomach is still rumbling, and although he’s curious, he figures three might be a crowd in a bathroom as tiny as Karen's. So he slowly munches on a slice of pizza, listening to the quiet murmur of Matt’s voice and Karen’s slow responses. He hears running water, and imagines that Matt is giving her water to drink, and a cool cloth for her forehead.

He feels strange suddenly, like an outsider intruding on something very personal, and weirdly like he simply doesn’t belong here. Was it really supposed to be Matt and Karen all along? Is this how the universe intended for things to turn out? Are he and Frank just interlopers in the story of the hero and his beautiful, golden-haired damsel? Foggy isn’t quite sure of his standing suddenly, like he thought he was standing on solid ground only it's turned out to be quicksand after all.

Karen makes her slow way out of the bathroom after about fifteen minutes have passed, Matt following along in her wake, his arm around her, mumbling words still too quiet for Foggy to quite make out. He ushers her into the bedroom, leaving Foggy outside, staring at the darkened doorway. He washes his hands to clear them of pizza grime, too curious to resist looking in on the two of them. Karen is laying down under the covers, Matt sitting next to her on the bed. His feet are still flat on the floor, but his hand is smoothing down her rumpled hair in a rather intimate gesture. She looks like some sort of mystical creature, her skin and fair hair glowing in the moonlight. Matt is little more than a dark outline next to her, but occasionally the moonlight coming through the windows glints off his glasses. They look perfect together, and strangely otherworldly.

Now it’s Foggy’s turn to bite his lip, unsure of his place here. He hates this feeling, when it's no longer the three of them, when someone is being cut and left behind. And that person more often than not seems to be him. But why wouldn't they leave him behind? Who is he anyway? He knows that these worries and fears aren't tangible or real. How often has Matt told him that he loves him, after all? He's just trying to be there for Karen, their very good friend, someone who's suffering right now. He knows all of this. And he knows that he should just turn the tv back on, wait for Karen to fall asleep, and for Matt to reappear so that they can go home together. Or he could probably just go in there himself, and sit on the other side of the bed. He could just be there, a solid, comforting presence, the way that Matt is doing.

But somehow the voices win out, and he gives into cowardice. He finds a way to justify it of course. He tells himself that it’s all for Ella, that someone is obligated to go check on her and pick her up from his mother before it gets too late. But that’s all really an elaborate lie to protect his own feelings. He knows he's lying to himself as he does it, but nevertheless he picks up his scarf, puts on his jacket, and disappears out the door, feeling more like a thief in the night than a legitimate visitor.

\---

A whole week passes, and Karen does not come back to work. Foggy visits her a few times, and she seems weak and drained, like she's recovering from the flu. She's slowly recovering though, and she no longer stares vacantly around herself or out of the window of her apartment. But there's something different about her all the same. Like something inside of herself has been irrevocably broken or just isn't functioning properly. If Foggy had to get poetic about it, he would say that it's like the fire has gone out of her eyes. 

Matt diligently takes her food every day, checking to make sure that she's doing okay, that she doesn't need any new groceries or stuff from the store. He's there for hours, sometimes long into the night. And Foggy can’t say that he isn’t lonely, even though he has Ella to keep him company. He tries to make the best of it, reassuring himself that if he’s busy with Karen, then at least Matt won’t be roaming the streets looking for a fight. Or worse, trying to hunt down Maya Lopez, a move that would certainly antagonize Fisk.

It's on one of those very evenings at the end of January, when he’s in the middle of marveling at how quickly Ella is developing, and watching her start to pull herself up to her feet for the very first time, that he hears a knock on Matt’s door. Thinking it’s just the delivery service he called to get some food sent to the apartment, he hurries to fling it open, and is left facing his greatest fear: Rosalind Sharpe, in the flesh. And he’s all alone.

His pulse beats out a rapid staccato, and he suddenly seems to have lost his voice.

“Well?” she demands, tapping one spiky heel on the hallway floor. “Are you going to invite me in or not, Franklin? Really, it’s poor manners to leave me just standing here.”

He knows that he should probably just slam the door in her face, and not let her in. But against his better judgment, he just opens the door and gestures at her to come inside. Her nose wrinkles as she takes in her surroundings, from the bare brick walls to the baby toys littering the floor to the glaring brightness of the billboard sign coming straight through the windows. She even stares down at their couch with disgust in her eyes, probably wondering if it’s sanitary to sit down. Then again, thinking of all of the bodily fluids he and Matt have swapped while writhing around on top of it...

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he says, indicating the couch with a sneer. He hopes that she doesn’t pick up on his mocking tone or the laugh in his voice. He's dying to see the expensive mink coat she's wearing get something altogether sticky and unexpected all over it.

“I won’t be staying long.”

She stands there imperiously after this declaration, and he’s struck by how ageless she seems sometimes. Like some sort of dark goddess rather than the woman who gave birth to him. She could truly be an admirable role model with how strong and fearless she is, if only she wasn't so addicted to her own ego and "standards of behavior." 

Ella tries to pull herself up and promptly falls right over, starting to cry loudly even though she isn't hurt, prompting Foggy to pick her up and rub her back to comfort her. A week ago they gave up on the gated play area, because the gates kept falling over on her every time she tried to pull herself up on them. Now (inspired by something that Anna saw on Pinterest) they have a blow up inflatable pool instead, which is honestly much softer and keeps her contained far better than the actual baby gate that they owned. They keep it stocked full of her favorite toys and fuzzy blankets, and she’s generally quite happy in there.

Not at the moment though, she’s howling and red-faced when Foggy rescues her from laying on her back. She quiets down a bit once she’s up in his arms with him rubbing her back. For her part, Rosalind is still looking around herself as if she’s never seen a normal apartment before. “This is quite the place you have here, Franklin. And quite the life you’re leading.”

Anger wells up within him. How dare she come in here and judge him after so many years of neglect? Who does she think she is anyway? “Can you please get to the point? It’s nearly dinner time, and Ella is getting fussy.”

“The _point_ , Franklin, is that your life is falling apart. The _point_ is that you’re stuck here, playing Susie Homemaker to a man who is no more successful than you are, which is to say not at all. The _point_ is that your law firm is falling apart. You’re barely keeping yourselves afloat with those ridiculous clients who can’t afford to pay you! You’re closed more often than you’re open, and now I hear that your secretary has abandoned you as well. I mean, of all the ridiculous notions... A secretary, acting like she's the boss of the place! It's absurd, and yet you and your partner just allow it to continue as if it's all perfectly normal."

He wonders if she’s just fishing for information, so he holds his tongue and keeps quiet. He tries to communicate his growing disdain with a withering glare instead, trying to indicate that it’s well past time for her to leave. It doesn’t work though, she just goes glares right back at him, making him feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. “She hasn’t left, she’s just recovering,” he finally says.

Her voice drips like sickly sweet poison. “Oh? From what?”

But he doesn’t owe this woman the truth, he doesn’t owe her anything at all. “That’s not any of your business.”

“Oh, but what if it is? What kind of business woman would I be if I didn’t look into potential issues with the partners who are going to be folded into my firm?”

His eyes narrow as he sees red. “That will never happen. I think all three of us have made that abundantly clear to you, and I think it’s time for you to leave now.”

“I will leave when I feel like it, Franklin. This conversation is far from over.”

“And what if I call the police and ask them to remove you?”

She gives a cold laugh, finally moving from her spot to fix her eyes quite obviously on the closet where Matt keeps his Daredevil costume. He can’t stop the flinch that comes over him suddenly, and he takes an involuntary step back. There’s no way, no way at all for her to know...

“Then perhaps I will encourage them to search this apartment thoroughly for evidence of criminal activity.”

He tries to force a calm, placid expression onto his face as if he has nothing to hide. “That would be illegal without a search warrant.”

Her smile is a slash of red against her pale skin. “Have you not already realized that anything can be made legal through the appropriate application of force?”

“Do you mean bribery and coercion?”

Good God, he knew that Rosalind had a reputation for being a shark and for representing some less than savory clientele, but this, this goes so far beyond anything that he imagined... His head is spinning, and he feels like he can’t get quite enough air in his lungs.

“I would prefer to call it the activation of one’s survival system.”

_I’m sure you would._

“We have nothing to hide,” he says, trying to sound confident. But even he can hear the quiver in his own voice.

“Sure you don’t,” she says, walking around the apartment, her eyes quickly flickering from one object to the next. The thing in the apartment that seems entirely beneath her notice is Ella, who is snuggled against his chest and utterly quiet and still as if she, too, is somehow terrified by the woman currently standing in their apartment. He wonders if children can sense danger, if she somehow knows how dangerously close they're skating to a precipice from which there is absolutely no return.

 _So come on Nelson,_ he tells himself, _make a smart move._

“You came here for something,” he says, forcing his shoulders back, trying to stand taller. “And you came when you knew good and well that Matt wouldn’t be here. So that means you came here for something that only I can give you.”

“Well done, you’ve mastered basic logic. And at 38 years old, too. My, my, how accomplished you are.” She sneers at him, but he can tell that he has her hooked now.

_Good, just concentrate on me, and leave Matt the hell alone._

“What I want, darling Franklin, is what I’ve always wanted.” She walks towards him, and he resists the urge to shrink back from her. “For you to succeed. To reach your full potential.” Her ice blue eyes are boring into his. “Something that definitely will not happen if you remain at that pitiful little joke of a law firm.”

It’s as if a knife has been plunged into his stomach, and all the blood is rushing from his body. “You can’t think for one second that I would…”

“Leave Nelson, Murdock, and… what was that clever girl’s name again? Mia? Miss 'missing in action?' Well, it’s become quite clear that you won’t leave of your own volition. But to protect someone you love, well now that might hold some appeal..."

Her voice trails off, and she looks significantly again at the closet. She makes a small circle around him, her lazy steps passing by him to head directly towards it. He can feel his pulse thudding in his chest like a jackhammer as he tries desperately to think of a way out of this situation. She puts her fingers on the handle, and even though he knows it's locked, he can't help but follow her. He reaches out and grips her arm, pulling her forcibly back, Ella shifting in his arms as he tugs her back from the door. 

“Nothing to hide, hm? Those were your exact words, were they not?”

“You have no right to pry into our personal lives!”

He realizes that he's still holding onto her arm, and he releases Rosalind, who takes a few steps backwards, rubbing at her arm as if he actually hurt her. “I think you’ll find that private citizens have every right to stand up to dangerous individuals who try to live outside of the law,” she says. He’s sweating through his shirt now, and he can feel Ella squirming in his arms. “I would be well protected if I were to reveal your precious lover’s little secret.”

“You don’t know anything,” he hisses, his desperation a dead giveaway to everything that he's trying to hide.

“On the contrary, I know everything,” she retorts. “And I have the pictures to prove it.”

“To prove what?”

She’s laughing again, leaving the living room behind and making her way towards the door. “Pictures that I’m sure the Bulletin would love to publish, and that the public would positively salivate over. Imagine your lover disbarred, possibly in prison. Because that’s where he’s headed. That is, unless you agree to leave your firm, and come to work at mine.”

His head is spinning. _All of this time, and what she wanted all along… No, there has to be a larger game here. But what is it?_

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

He tries to stand firm and resolute as she opens the door, looking as poised and unflustered as ever. “Oh my darling, let’s just say that I have pictures that prove what even the Catholic Church, in all its years, and all its striving, has not been able to achieve. I have pictures that prove that the devil is real.”

And with that, she walks out, not even bothering to close the door behind her. Foggy slides down to his knees, sinking like a puppet with cut strings. 


End file.
